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PERSONAL REMINISCENCES 



BY 



CHORLEY, PLANCHE, AND YOUNG 



SWSQ^aSi 



BRIC-A-BRAC SERIES. 



i. 

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES by Chorley, Planche, and Young. 

II. 

ANECDOTE BIOGRAPHIES OF THACKERAY AND DICKENS. 

III. 

PROSPER MERIMEE'S LETTERS TO AN INCOGNITA; with 
Recollections by Lamartine and George Sand. 

IV. 

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES by Barham, Harness, and Hod- 
der. 

V. 

THE GREVILLE MEMOIRS. 

VI. 

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES by Moore and Jerdan. 

( Will be published in February.) 

Each i vol. of i2mo. Per vol. $1.50. 

Sent, pest-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers. 



— 0^ 

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES 



BY 

CHORLEY, PLANCHE, AND YOUNG 

EDITED BY 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 







NEW YORK 

SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, AND COMPANY 

1875 



0> 



& 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874^ by 

Scribner, Armstrong, and Company, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 




RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 




CONTENTS. 



CHORLEY. 


PAGE 


The Athen^um 


3 


George Darley 


4 


Talfourd's "Ion" .- . . . 


. . . 5 


T. N. Talfourd . . 


6 


Chorley abused 


• • • 7 


Miss Landon 


8 


The Chevalier Neukomm . 


12 


Herr Moscheles . 


. 13 


N. P. Willis 


14 


Lady Blessington . . . . . . 


. . .15 


Count d'Orsay 


18 


Theodore Hook 


20 


Anecdote of Byron .... 


20 


Michael Angelo Drawings . 


.21 


Edwin Forrest 


. . 22 


Walter Savage Landor . 


22 


Isaac Disraeli 


22 


M. Rio . . 


. 23 


Lord Lytton . . 




Sydney Smith . 


. . .25 


George Grote ..... 


27 


Samuel Rogers . . 


. 28 


Lady Morgan . ... 




Paul de Kock . . . .... 


. 40 


Alfred ?e Vigny .... 


, 43 


Rachel 


. 43 



Vi CONTENTS. 

Mlle. Mars , 44 

Louis Napoleon .... ... 44 

The Misses Berry .47 

Southey 47 

Mr. and Mrs. Haynes Bayly 48 

Miss Sedgwick 48 

Mrs. Browning 48 

Sir William Molesworth 52 

Thomas Campbell 56 

Professor Bendemann 58 

Kaulbach 59 

Nathaniel Hawthorne .60 

Spiritualism 65 

Chorley at Gad's Hill 69 

PLANCH&. 

Elliston 73 

Samuel Beazley 74 

Sir Lumley Skeffington 76 

Peake, the Dramatist 77 

Von Weber's " Oberon " . . . . . . . 78 

William Jerdan . . . . . . .80 

Thomas Hood . . . . . . . 81 

John Hamilton Reynolds 83 

L. E. L 84 

The Superannuated General Postman ... 84 

The Peace of Amiens 85 

Manager Morris 86 

Poole and Kenny 88 

Thomas Hill 89 

Novelists and Dramatists 91 

Revival of " King John " * 92 

James Wallack in " The Brigand " ... 97 

Musical Copyrights 99 

Stephen Trice ........ 100 



CONTENTS. Vll 

The Beef-steak Club 101 

Billy Dunn 103 

" The Garrick n • . . . • 104 

Theodore Hook ........ 105 

William Makepeace Thackeray ... .107 

James Smith . 108 

Sir Henry Webb 112 * 

Malibran . . . 112 

Rogers and Luttrell 114 

t,ADY Salisbury 118 

The Sketching Society 119 

Historic Accuracy 120 

Louis Napoleon .... ... 123 

Lablache .... . . 124 

Haynes Bayly's Widow 125 

Edmund Byng 128 

Charles Mayne Young 13c 

Practical Joking 133 

Liston ' . 134 

Charles Kemble 135 

Sheridan Knowles 137 

Leigh Hunt 139 

Tomkinson . . . . . . . . .141 

Albert Smith 142 

Missing Moore . 143 

Mr. and Mrs. Bartley 145 

Charles Farley . . . . . . .146 

Madame Vestris . . . - . . . - , , 147 

Death of Theodore Hook . . . . . . 148 

YOUNG. 

Charles Mayne Young's Father . . . . 153 

Edmund Kean and Mother Carey . . » 154 

Gaspar Grimani 155 

Young and the Elephant 157 



Viii CONTENTS. 

Mrs. Siddons as Volumnia 159 

The Gait proclaims the Man .... 162 

Mlle. Duchesnois • .163 

Kemble's Farewell 164 

Young and Kean 164 

Anecdotes of Young 170 

Young and the Magdalen . . . . . .172 

A Scotch Prayer 173 

A French Letter 174 

The Youngs, at Abbotsford . . . . . 176 

Dr. Chalmers 186 

Dr. Haldane . . 188 

The Lost Ring . 189 

Coleridge and Wordsworth 191 

Dr. Huhle 203 

Theodore Hook 205 

Murder will Out . . 206 

Sir Thomas Lawrence's Advice .... 209 

Constable the Artist 211 

Young presented at Court 212 

Paganini . . . . 213 

Smith's Puns , 214 

Count Danniskiold . . . . . . . 216 

The Pillar of Gold • . 216 

Sir Horace Seymour , 219 

John Wilson Croker 224 

Effect of Military Music 229 

Anecdotes of the French Police . 232 

Wellington's Copenhagen 237 

Wellington and the Bagman 240 

Wellington not Surprised 245 

The Three Parishioners 248 

Charles Mathews 251 

William Lisle Bowles . . . . . . 276 

William Beckford . . . . . .282 






PREFACE. 




8HE Literature of Personal Reminiscence is more 
extensive than its casual readers might suppose, 
and is of a more entertaining character, it seems 
to me, than any other kind of Literature. The historian, 
the novelist, the dramatist, depict men and women, but 
generally at the expense of some truth which escapes 
them, or which they conceal. They are like portrait 
painters who place their sitters in the most striking atti- 
tudes, and under the most favorable light. They profess 
to paint likenesses, and the most skillful do, perhaps, but 
they paint something more, and something less. There is 
a restraint in art which is not in nature : the inner life that 
lurks in the curve of a lip, that flashes out suddenly from 
the eye, that is perceived in the carriage of the body, — 
these elude the artist. Could he come upon his sitter un- 
awares, they might be caught and transferred to his can- 
vas. This is the reason why so many portraits are disap- 
pointing, and the reason why so many biographies are 
disappointing ; for what is true of Art is true of Litera- 
ture. There is that in men and women which eludes the 
literary artists who essay to paint them elaborately, but 
which is sometimes caught by others, who are mere 
sketchers, as these artists would have us believe, but who, 



X PREFACE. 

nevertheless, have the knack of hitting off a likeness. 
They seem to come upon character unawares, 

" And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art." 

From the latest of these sketchers, if they must be con- 
sidered such, I have selected three, who are represented in 
this volume, — Chorley, Planche, and Young. The reasons 
that led me to select these writers in preference to others 
that might be named, and to associate them together here, 
are, that they were contemporaries (Chorley and Planche 
may almost be said to be neighbors) ; that each knew the 
friends of the others, and recorded in some instances the 
impressions they made upon him ; and that they intro- 
duce us to the intellectual life of the same period. It is 
one in which we are all interested, being the most bril- 
liant as regards its Literature, of any since 

" The spacious times of great Elizabeth," 

and coming so near our own that we are stirred as by per- 
sonal emotion at the mention of its illustrious names. 
As the reader will soon find himself among them, he may 
like to know something about the gentlemen who are to 
usher him into their presence. 

Henry Fothergill Chorley was born on the 15th of De- 
cember, 1808, at Blackley Hurst, near Billinge, in Lanca- 
shire. His father and mother were nominally members 
of the Society of Friends, though neither ever wore the 
dress of that body, nor conformed to its ascetic discipline 
and testimonies. The Chorleys were an old family be- 
longing to the gentry of Lancashire, and in old times 
were of credit and substance. Two of its members were 
beheaded at Preston, in Lancashire, in chastisement for 
their having gone out with the Stuarts in 1715, and their 
landed property was then confiscated. From that time, 



PREFACE. XI 

the principal branch of the family, to which Henry be- 
longed, gradually decayed. They had not the art of mak- 
ing or keeping money ; and Henry's father dying in his 
eighth year, John Rutter of Liverpool, his mother's half 
brother, stood betwixt the family and want. 

Chorley differed in nothing from ordinary children, ex- 
cept, perhaps, in his early fondness for music, which he 
probably inherited from his mother, who had a sweet but 
unformed voice, and a piano-forte, upon which she played 
but indifferently. He could not remember when or where 
he began to associate the printed symbols with the popu- 
lar sounds of music, but before he could put his hand on 
the piano he could read the notes somehow, and could 
represent to himself somehow that which they signified. 
The Chorley s moved to Liverpool in 1819, and Henry 
and his brothers were placed at the school of the Royal 
Institution, where little actually was taught, save Latin 
and* Greek ; an odd training fpr boys among which ninety 
out of the hundred were to make their way in commercial 
life. By some favor he was admitted a year or two before 
he ought to have been : and no favor did it prove, so far 
as happiness was concerned, for being the smallest, most 
nervous creature in the place, inexpert at any game, and 
shabbily dressed, and being also credited with some quick- 
ness, he was a good deal plagued and rudely treated by 
the elder boys ; not so much disliked as cruelly teased, and 
in great difficulties as to the finding a playmate or a com- 
rade. Years after, he used to wake up from a sort of night- 
mare dream that he was going to school, and had not his 
exercise ready. He learned Greek with greater relish than 
Latin, his favorite authors being Herodotus, and Euripides, 
whose " Hecuba " he translated from beginning to end 
for his own pleasure. 



Xll PREFACE. 

There was a music-shop which the Chorley children 
used to pass on their way to school, and Henry got into 
the good graces of the people who kept it, and as the 
daughter of the house had been trained as a mistress of 
the piano, he was sometimes allowed to hear her play. 
His desire was to be a musician, and he felt in after life 
that if his elders had understood him, and had appren- 
ticed him to a musician, he might have done England an 
artist's service. But it was not to be. He was taken 
from school at an early age, and assigned to a clerkship 
in the office of Messrs. Cropper, Benson, & Co., a pros- 
perous firm of American merchants in Liverpool. How 
long he remained with them does not appear, but the oc- 
cupation not being to his liking, he was transferred to a 
seat in the office of a Sicilian wine house. Commercial 
life was distasteful to him, and by way of compensation 
for enduring it, he embraced every opportunity to indulge 
his love of music, and to cultivate his taste for literature. 
He wrote a series of sketches of characters and manners, 
drawn from his observation of Liverpool life, besides tales, 
lyrics, and hymns, a dramatic poem of which Stradella 
was the hero, and musical criticisms, which were probably 
of some value. A few of these productions appeared in 
the " Winter Wreath " and the " Sacred Offering," and 
other annuals, to which his mother and sister, and his two 
brothers, were contributors. He went to London in his 
twenty-second year, and was taken by Archdeacon Wrang- 
ham to breakfast at the house of Mr. Basil Montagu. 
He is described as being at this time a romantic, enthu- 
siastic youth, with plain features, and red hair : his man- 
ners were gentlemanly, but marked by a nervous timidity, 
which he retained to the last, and a touch of Quaker 



----.- -•->----_-; ^5^- 



PREFACE. xiiiW 

quaintness, which greatly interested Mr. Montagu, who ° 
was much attached to the sect. 

Music was his ruling passion, to which was soon to be 
added musical criticism. He heard his brother and a 
friend speaking with delight of certain musical criticisms 
of the German humorist, Hoffman, and as he had no 
knowledge of German, he asked this friend to translate 
for him two chapters from the " Phantasienstucke," which 
roused his enthusiasm. " That is what /can do," he said, 
" and what I will do." It was not long before an oppor- 
tunity was offered him. Among the contributors to the 
London " Athenaeum " was Miss Maria Jewsbury, after- 
wards Mrs. Fletcher, who mentioned Chorley to the 
editor, Mr. Charles Wentworth Dilke, as one who might 
be of service to the paper ; and in September, 1830, Mr. 
Dilke asked him to write an account of the ceremonief 
that were to inaugurate the new railway between Liverpool 
and Manchester. He complied, but with many misgiv- 
ings : he said he should be most happy to contribute 
light articles in prose and verse, and if the editor should 
at any time like to have musical papers, he would give 
him his best efforts, as he loved the art dearly, and had 
spent much time in its cultivation. He forwarded to the 
" Athenaeum " several lyrics and musical criticisms, which 
were duly inserted, and which determined his future 
career. Finally, in September, 1833, he applied to Mr. 
Dilke for admission on the staff of his paper, and was 
accepted on what would now seem very hard terms — the 
sum of ^50 for six months' service. He was to live in 
the neighborhood of Mr. Dilke, and was to render him 
any and every assistance that he might suggest. He ac- 
cepted without hesitation, went to London, and until 



XIV PREFACE, 

within a few years of his death, was attached to the 
" Athenaeum." 

There have been editors whose lives have been event- 
ful, but Chorley was not one of them. He began as a 
drudge, he ended as an authority. Industrious he cer- 
tainly was, and in many directions. He had hardly set 
foot in London, before he put to press " Sketches of a 
Seaport Town," — the sketches in question being those 
that he had written in Liverpool. His profession brought 
him in contact with the literary celebrities of the day, — 
Proctor, Hood, Atherstone, G. P. R. James, and Thack- 
eray, who was then only Michael Angelo Titmarsh, — and 
stimulated his literary ambition. The following is a list 
of his writings : " Conti the Discarded, with other Tales 
and Fancies in Music " (1835), " Memorials of the Life 
of Mrs. Hemans" (1836), " The Authors of England" 
(1838), "The Lion, a Tale of the Coteries "' (1839), 
a Music and Manners in France and North Germany" 
{1841), " Pomfret, or Public Opinion and Private Judg- 
ment" (1845), " 01d Love and New Fortune" (1850), 
" The Lovelock" (1854), "The Duchess Eleanour " (1854), 
" Fairy Gold for Young and Old " (1857), " Roccabella" 
(1859), and u The Prodigy, a Tale of Music," 1866. Of 
the first, fourth, sixth, eleventh, and last of these works, 
which were in a certain sense novels, it is enough to say 
that they were not successful. Browning, however, ex- 
pressed a high opinion of " Pomfret," and Dickens and 
Hawthorne were charmed with " Roccabella." u Old Love 
and New Fortune," a five act play in blank verse, was 
produced at the Surry Theatre, and was a thorough suc- 
cess. " The Lovelock," a fantastic sort of morality, in- 
terspersed with lyrics, was played without success, to the 
no great disappointment of Chorley, who wrote to tha 



PREFACE. XV 

editor of the " Athenaeum " the next morning, to promise a 
review upon which he was working, u in proof that though 
damned, I am not dead." " The Duchess Eleanour " was 
moderately successful, but for one night only. Besides 
these works, and his musical and art criticisms and re- 
views in the " Athenaeum/' he wrote for the " British 
Foreign," and the " New Quarterly " Reviews, " Bentley's 
Miscellany," " The People's Journal," and " Jerrold's 
Magazine " ; and he edited the second series of Miss 
Mitford's letters. It was as a musical critic, rather than 
as an author, that Chorley was best known, and in this 
special walk of literature, for he made it one, he was with- 
out a rival in England. He was known to the whole 
musical profession, by whom he was held in great esteem, 
as a thoroughly capable and impartial critic, and he en- 
joyed the friendship of Mendelssohn, and other European 
composers. He was an authority on music while he was 
connected with the " Athenaeum," which was taken by 
many for his articles alone. 

Chorley resided for upwards of twenty years in Eaton 
Place West, and nearly all that was distinguished in Art, 
Science, and Literature, was constantly to be met at his 
house. In the later years of his life he removed to 
Belgravia, were he perpetrated a grim joke at his own 
expense. The house which he took was a small one, and 
the agent who showed him over it on the completion of 
his purchase made an apology for the narrowness of the 
staircase. " Never mind," said Chorley, " I shall re- 
quire a very narrow coffin." " I have sold a great many 
leases of houses, sir," said the man, astonished, " but I 
never heard a gentleman make such an observation be- 
fore." Chorley died on the 16th of February, 1872, in 
the sixty-fourth year of his age. 



XVI PREFACE 

James Robinson Planche was born in London, on the 
27th of February, 1796. His parents, who were cousins, 
were the children of French refugees. His father was 
employed when a young man in the house of Vulliamy 
& Co., watchmakers to his youthful majesty George the 
Third, who took a great fancy to him, and often talked to 
him in the most familiar manner. One day, going to St. 
James's with the king's watch, he remarked to the page 
that the ribbon was rather dirty. The king heard him, 
and coming to the door said, in the sharp, quick way 
which was habitual to him, " What's that, Planche ? What's 
that ? " The young watchmaker repeated his observation , 
and suggested a new ribbon. t; New ribbon, Planch6 ! 
What for ? Can't it be washed ? Can't it be washed ? " 
Planche's mother died before he was nine, while he was 
at boarding-school, unlearning French, which he spoke 
with great fluency. He worried himself home before he 
was fourteen, and the question was what to do with him. 
He had a playmate in an attorney's office, and wished to 
be an attorney. He was fond of drawing, and desired, 
therefore, to be an artist. His father, who had known 
what it was to be almost a beggar, but who had obtained 
a competency by his own industry and honesty, declared 
that he should have a trade or profession. Planche said 
that he would be an artist, and was sent to study geometry 
and perspective under a French landscape painter of some 
ability, who died before he could be of any great service 
to him. His art life ended, the capricious lad took to 
scribbling, and, in the hope of one day publishing his own 
works, determined to be a bookseller. He was appren- 
ticed to one, and during the time that he remained with 
him developed a propensity common to young men, the 
belief that he was an actor, and as his father died in his 



PREFACE, Xvii 

twentieth year, he was able to carry it into practice. He 
turned amateur, and at various private theatres murdered 
sundry great personages to his entire satisfaction, in com- 
pany with other juvenile aspirants, who afterwards rose to 
eminence on the stage. Finding nothing in Shakespeare 
or Sheridan worthy of his abilities, he resolved to write a 
play himself. It was a burlesque, after the manner of 
u Bombastes Furioso," and was entitled li Amoroso, King 
of Little Britain. " It was handed round among his 
brother amateurs, by one of whom it was shown to Mr. 
Harley of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and that es- 
tablishment being at the moment in a state of starvation, 
this humble morsel was snapped at. " Amoroso " was 
produced on the 21st of April, 1818, and sustained by the 
acting and singing of Harley, Knight, Oxberry, Mrs. 
Orger, and Mrs. Bland, it made a hit. It put no money 
in Planche's pocket, but it decided his vocation. He 
was a dramatist from that day forth. He lived, moved, 
and had his being in the theatre. He went home to dine, 
and reluctantly to sleep. We read of the fecundity of 
Lope de Vega, but I question whether that prolific writer 
ever turned off more plays from his " prentice han' " than 
did Planch6, from his twenty-second to his thirty-seventh 
year, when he had put upon the stage, of one description 
and another, seventy-six plays ! He early learned one 
secret of success, and he practiced it, not as since became 
the fashion with the craft, but in an honorable manner. 
This secret was the translation of French plays, which, 
when notable, he was generally the first English dramatist 
to witness, and to put upon the English stage. He did 
not pass them off as his own, but gave their authors the 
credit that their invention deserved. One of his earliest 
translations, " The Vampire," was produced at the Ly- 
b 



XV111 PREFACE, 

ceum, and Planche vainly endeavored to induce the man- 
ager to let him change the scene of the play from Scot- 
land, where the French dramatist had recklessly placed it, 
but where the Vampire superstition did not exist, to some 
place where it did. The manager had set his heart on 
Scotch music and dresses, and the play was produced with 
them, and had a long run. The time came when Planche 
had his own way in matters like this. It commenced at 
Covent Garden Theatre with the revival of " King John," 
which was produced under his direction, with strict his- 
torical accuracy. He was assisted by the advice of Fran- 
cis Douce, the well known antiquary, and Sir Samuel 
Meyrick, the greatest authority in England on ancient 
arms and armor. The revival was a great success, sur- 
prising the actors, who had no faith in historical accuracy. 
The life of Planche was marked by no event of im- 
portance, unless his marriage in 182 1 may be considered 
one. It was crowded with literary work, and good work, 
too, but not of a kind that lives as Literature. It was 
written for the day, and for whatever theatre Planche was 
connected with, and embraced the whole range of the act- 
ing English drama, to which he added upwards of two 
hundred plays. I question whether Planche himself 
could make out a complete list of his dramatic works, 
and I am certain if he did that it would not interest us 
much now. Those by which he was best known at the 
height of his popularity, are as follows : " Success, or a 
Hit if you Like it," " The Merchant's Wedding," " Charles 
the Twelfth," " The Brigand," " Olympic Revels," " The 
Romance of a Day," " The Legion of Honor," il A Friend 
at Court," " The Army of the North," The Love Charm," 
fl Olympic Devils," " His First Campaign," " The Student 
of Jena," " Gustavus the Third," "Secret Service," " The 



PREFACE. xix 

Red Mask," " Court Favor," " The Two Figaros," " Blue 
Beard," " Faint Heart never won Fair Lady," " The Follies 
of a Night," " Fortunio," " Graciosa and Percinet," " The 
Golden Fleece," " The Pride of the Market," " The Loan 
of a Lover," "The Yellow Dwarf," "King Charming," 
and " The King of the Peacocks." Old play-goers will 
recall many of these, for a successful play by Planche 
was sure to be produced wherever the English language 
was spoken. They were good plays, his best, well con- 
structed and full of interest, and the characters were 
clearly individualized. They contrasted strongly with the 
plays that are most in vogue now, in that the morals were 
sound, and the manners good, which is but another way 
of saying that they were written by a gentleman. 

The antiquarian studies of Planche, which he cultivated 
assiduously in the midst of his dramatic writings, introduced 
him to other audiences than those which witnessed his 
plays, and placed his name among scholars in this depart- 
ment of letters. His first antiquarian work, " The His- 
tory of British Costume," brought him to the notice of the 
leading English painters of the time, Haydon, Maclise, 
Etty, Prout, Uwins, the Landseers, Cattermole, and oth- 
ers, who sought his advice, and profited by his knowledge. 
He contributed, Mr. Allibone informs us, the Costume for 
Knight's " Pictorial Shakespeare," the Costume and Furni- 
ture in the chapters on Manners and Customs in the 
" Pictorial History of England ; " and edited, with Critical 
and Explanatory Notes, editions of Strutt's " Regal and 
Ecclesiastical Antiquities of England," and " The Dresses 
and Habits of the People of England," and " An Intro- 
duction to Heraldry," by Hugh Clark. He also wrote 
" Regal Records ; Coronation of Queens," " Souvenirs 
of the Bal Costum6," and " The Pursuivant of Arms, or 



XX PREFACE. 

Heraldry Founded upon Facts." Nor did he confine him- 
self to works of an antiquarian character, his first literary 
effort being a volume entitled, * Lays and Legends of the 
Rhine." It was followed by " The Descent of the Danube 
from Ratisbon to Vienna," " Shere Afkun, a Legend of 
Hindoostan," and translations of the fairy-tales of the 
Countess d'Aulnoy and Charles Perrault In 185 1 he 
was appointed Rouge Croix Pursuivant, and in 1866 was 
promoted to the office of Somerset Herald, which he now 
holds. 

Julian Charles Young was born at Manchester, on the 
7th of July, 1806. His father, Charles Mayne Young, 
was the son of an eminent surgeon, whose brutality to 
his family drove his wife and children into separating 
from him, and induced Charles to go upon the stage, in 
order to maintain his mother. He made his debut in 
Liverpool, in 1798, as Mr. Green, in the character of 
Douglas, and meeting with great success he resumed his 
own name the next year, and played the leading parts in 
Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow, and Edinburgh, and at 
length in London, where for years he divided the honors 
with his great master John Kemble, and that fiery meteor, 
Edmund Kean. He was a disciple of the Kemble school 
of acting, and, if contemporary criticism may be trusted, 
its ablest and most intelligent one. He excelled both in 
tragedy and comedy, his list of characters embracing such 
parts as Don Felix, Osmond, Rolla, Penruddock, Pe- 
truchio, and The Stranger, as well as Hamlet, King John, 
and Romeo. Hamlet was his favorite part, and he 
selected it when he took leave of the stage, which he 
adorned for over thirty years, at the age of fifty-three, — 
a prosperous gentleman, in the full maturity of his powers 
and fame. He died on the 28th of June, 1856, at the age 



PREFACE XXI 

of seventy-nine, and just fifty years after the death of his 
young wife. 

She was an Italian lady, and of noble blood, being a 
descendant of the Grimanis, and as good as she was 
beautiful. The death of her father left her mother and 
brothers, and a younger sister, in poverty,, and, like 
Young, she determined to better their fortunes by going 
upon the stage, and in spite of all remonstrances from her 
titled friends, did so, appearing at Bath in the " Grecian 
Daughter/* in 1802 or 1803. She was so triumphant in this 
play, that in 1804, she obtained a London engagement, 
and made her debut in Juliet, which was received with 
great applause. In the autumn of the same year she was 
engaged to fill all the first parts at the Liverpool Theatre. 
It was there that she met a handsome young tragedian of 
twenty-seven, who loved her at first sight, and whose 
Romeo, we may suppose, was as fervid as her Juliet. 
Charles Mayne Young and Julia Grimani were married 
on the 9th of March, 1805. Mrs. Young died on the 17th 
of July, 1806, of puerperal fever, ten days after the birth 
of her son, Julian Charles. The motherless child was 
consigned to the care of a daughter of a captain in the 
Royal Navy, by whom he was tenderly cared for until 
he was six years old. He was then sent to Clapham, 
where Dr. Charles Richardson, the lexicographer, had 
a school, and where he remained nine years, Charles 
James Mathews, a son of the comedian, being one of his 
school-fellows, and John Mitchell Kemble, a son of Charles 
Kemble, another. When he was fifteen, he was considered 
too old to remain longer at a private school to advantage, 
so his father wrote to Walter Scott, by whom he was 
highly esteemed, and inquired if the youth of Julian would 
disqualify him for admission to the University of St 



XX11 PREFACE. 

Andrew's. Scott thought not, and suggested that fathei 
and son should come and stay a few days at Abbotsford. 
They did so, and in due time Julian was transplanted to 
St. Andrew's, where he was his own master, doing what- 
ever he would, and attending what lectures he pleased 
He remained at St. Andrew's three years, having a vaca- 
tion of five months in each year, which he spent in Eng- 
land. When he was nineteen his heart was set on taking 
Holy Orders, and as it was necessary for him to go 
through a preliminary course of three years at one of the 
universities, his father was at a loss to know at what 
college to enter him. While he was puzzling over the 
matter, he met the Duke of York, who asked how his boy 
was getting on, and on being told that he was thinking 
of sending him to Oxford, answered, " Oh, send him to 
Christ Church, by all means." " I am afraid, sir, it is too 
aristocratic a place for my son : he might be led into ex- 
penses I could ill afford, and into society above his class." 
" Pooh, pooh," replied the Duke, " you leave it to me." 
It was left to him. He turned his horse's head, and fol- 
lowed by his groom, rode to see Lord Liverpool about it. 
His lordship said it was no easy matter for any one — be 
his rank what it might — to get admittance into Christ 
Church, but if any one could serve his protege, it was Peel. 
Peel was not able to do so, for just then rooms at Christ 
Church were not to be had for love, or interest, or 
money. Rooms were, however, secured for Julian at 
Worcester College, Oxford, whither he repaired in 1825, 
and where he remained until he took his degree of B. A. 
He then went to London to read, under a private tutor, 
for Holy Orders, and returned to keep his Master's term. 
He was ordained priest by the Bishop of Chichester in 
the summer of 1830, and in the autumn of that year was 



PREFACE. xxill 

appointed chaplain of the Palace, Hampton Court. In 
the spring of 1832, he married Elizabeth Ann Georgiana 
Willis, of Freshwater House, and Atherfield, Isle of 
Wight. Lord Brougham offered him the living of Barton 
near Market Keeping, in Lincolnshire, which he accepted. 
At a later period he was made rector of Ilmington. He 
died last year, after forty-three years' service in his holy 
office, a shrewd, observant, kind-hearted, genial English 
gentleman. 

This is all that the reader need know about Young, 
Planche, and Chorley, who will shortly speak for them- 
selves, and the men and women they knew. For the 
present volume, it is enough to say that it is selected from 
their writings ; the portion devoted to Young from " A 
Memoir of Charles Mayne Young, Tragedian, with Ex- 
tracts from his Son's Journal, by Charles Young, A. 
M., Rector of Ilmington " (London, 187 1) ; the portion 
devoted to Planche, from " The Recollections and Re- 
flections of J. R. Planche (Somerset Herald), A Pro- 
fessional Biography" (London, 1872) ; and the portion 
devoted to Chorley, from u Henry Fothergill Chorley : 
Autobiography, Memoir, and Letters. Compiled by Henry 
G. Hewlett" (London, 1873). The two last named, 
which are in two volumes each, are so heavily padded that 
one has to read 624 pages of Planche's writing, and 682 
pages of the writing of Chorley and Hewlett, in order to 
glean the best of their reminiscences. I believe I have 
them here, as well as the best of Young's, which for point 
and spirit excel theirs, I think. Of this, however, and ot 
other matters pertaining to these worthies, the reader will 
judge for himself. 

R. H. S. 



HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 



HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 




The Athenaeum. 

N 1834 the "Athenaeum" was largely supported, in 
point of contributions, by many of Mr. Dilke's former 
comrades in "The London Magazine. " Charles 
Lamb gave the journal some of his last and not 
least racy fragments. Hood, too, when he could be prevailed on 
to cast off the habits of procrastination which had so disturbing 
an effect on his fortunes, lent a hand from time to time ; and 
some of his whimsical criticisms are not even to be surpassed 
by the best comicalities in his " Whims and Oddities." It 
must be an increasing object of regret to all who love that 
which is original or powerful in imaginative prose and verse, 
that Hood gave such small time and labor to the publrc. 
Though he used to profess that he could not control his demon, 
as an excuse for his indolence, a time always arrived when it 
became a matter of life and death, of daily and nightly toil, to 
hurry through the work, long contracted and largely paid for 
in advance. For years this amounted to nothing beyond the 
small annual volume of comic and grotesque fancies. 

Then, too, the "Athenaeum" was from time to time enriched 
by Barry Cornwall's gem-like and musical verses, and by the 
brilliant, yet not always refined, criticisms of Hood's brother-in- 
law and partner in the " Odes and Addresses to Great People," 
John Hamilton Reynolds. 1 On another man of yet greater 

1 Few, save perhaps surviving members of the Garrick Club, will be found who 
recollect the name of this writer. Yet it was brought before the world by no meaner 



4 HENR Y FO THERGILL C HO RLE Y 

power and peculiarity, who belonged to the same set, abused 
as cockney by the immaculate Tory critics of Edinburgh, 
I must dwell more in detail : this was George Darley, one 
of the most original human beings whom I have ever known, 
and who cannot be forgotten by any of the few who had the 
opportunity, which chance gave me, of studying so gifted, 
yet so eccentric, a man near at hand. 

George Darley. 

Many years ago, when Miss Paton, the singer, was in her 
prime — dividing honors as a first-class English singer with 
Miss Stephens — she used to make one of her great effects 
in a ballad "I've been roaming," set to ballad music by 
Horn — one of those delicious and refined English tune com- 
posers to whom the time present offers no equivalent. The 
words, odd, fantastic, and full of suggestion, were by Darley, 
from a curious pastoral, " Sylvia, or the May Queen," a sort of 
half fairy, half-sylvan masque, almost as charming, and quite 
as little intelligible, as a certain tale, " Phantasmion," published 
some years ago, and attributed to the gifted Sara Coleridge, 
which, possibly, ten persons besides myself have read. 

At the time when my connection with the " Athenasum " 
began, this strange reserved being, who conceived himsell 
largely shut out from companionship with his brother poets by 
a terrible impediment of speech, was wandering in Italy, and 
sending home to the journal in question a series of letters on 
Art, written in a forced and affected style, but pregnant with 
research, unborrowed speculation, excellent touches by which 
the nature of a work and of its maker are characterized. The 
taste in composition, the general severity of the judgments 
pronounced, might be questioned ; but no one could read them 
without being stirred to compare and to think. In particular, 

a judge than Lod Byron, who praised his " Sane;" and there is hardly an an- 
thology devoted to verse of this century which does not include that deliciously 
musical lyric — 

11 Go where the water glideth gently ever," 

than which our Laureate himself has produced nothing more melodious. 



TALFOURD'S "ION." 5 

he laid stress on the elder painters, whose day had not yet 
come for England, on Giotto, on .Perugino, on Francesco 
Francia, and on Lionardo da Vinci. To myself, as to a then 
untravelled man, the value of these letters was great indeed. 

Talfourd's " Ion." 

On the return of Darley to London, he took up in the 
" Athenaeum " the position of dramatic reviewer — not critic 
to the hour — in the most truculent and uncompromising 
fashion conceivable. When Talfourd's " Ion " was published, 
it appeared to myself (as it still appears) to be the most noble, 
highly finished, and picturesque modern classical tragedy exist- 
ing on the English stage. It was not its large private distri- 
bution, not merely the great reputation of its author, but the 
vital, pathetic excellence of the drama, and the rich poetry of 
the diction, which, on the night of the production of the play 
at Co vent Garden, filled that great theatre with an audience 
the like of which, in point of distinction, I have never seen in 
any English theatre. There were the flower of our poets, the 
best of our lawyers, artists of every world and every quality. 
There was a poor actor of some enterprise and promise, Mr. 
Cathcart, who, in the fullness of zeal and expectation, abso- 
lutely walked up to London from Brighton, to be present at 
the first performance. 

The success of this was superb, and established its author 
once for all among the real dramatists of England.- And yet it 
was a success under disadvantages. With all his passion and 
poetry of execution, and subtlety of conception, no magic 
could make Mr. Macready thoroughly acceptable as the young 
hero. The part was afterwards again and again tried by act- 
resses in male attire — always a disappointing, when it is not 
a repulsive expedient. One could not escape from the tones 
and attitudes of Werner, and Virginius, and Macbeth. " Ion" 
has yet to be seen. Nor did the charming " Clemanthe " 
of Miss Ellen Tree group well with the hero. The other per- 
sons of the play were either weakly or boisterously presented. 
There had been no particular pains bestowed on scenery or 



6 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

appointments. But of the entire, unquestionable triumph of 
the tragedy, there could not be an instant's doubt on the part 
of any unprejudiced spectator. I have rarely been so warmed, 
so moved in any theatre. 

T. N. Talfourd. 

I had met the author at Lady Blessington's ; and she --in 
no respect more generously constant to her friends till the very 
last than in trying to serve younger artists and men of letters 
in whom she fancied promise — presented me to the orator 
and the dramatist of that one great play — it may be (for this 
I cannot say), as a writer in connection with a rising journal. 
I have since thought that such must have been the case, with- 
out false thought or purpose on her part, but in her wish to set 
me out to the best advantage. As matters turned out, her 
genuine regard and desire to present me resulted in no good 
influence on my fortunes, literary or critical, but absolutely the 
reverse. 

An ill chance for me threw the critic's task, as regarded the 
" Athenaeum," into the hands of Darley — hands never more 
vigorous than when they were using the axe and scalpel. 
That the grace of propriety was utterly wanting to him, his 
own dramas, u Thomas a Becket " and " Athelstan " attest. 

I was only known to Mr. Talfourd as one who wrote in the 
"Athenaeum," and having in person expressed to him what J 
thought and felt in regard to the play, it was necessary for me 
at once, with the utmost earnestness, to write to him on the 
appearance of the criticism against which I had privately pro- 
tested, but in vain, with the strongest possible disclaimer of its 
unjust and uncouth severity, and an equally strong assertion ol 
my own utter powerlessness to interfere in suppression or 
mitigation. My letter, I fear, was not believed to be sincere. 
It was said that, had I been in earnest, I could easily have 
attested my sincerity, by entire withdrawal from a publication 
so wicked and malignant — a stringent suggestion, truly ! But 
few have admitted the right of private judgment so grudgingly 
as the most advanced Liberals ; few have been so despotic in 



CHORLEY ABUSED. 7 

their partisanship. The damage done me by that article was 
inconceivable. Not only did it cost me the good understand- 
ing of the poet himself, but, for years, I was set up as a mark 
to be decried by all the coterie round him. 

Chorley Abused. 

Whenever I attempted any appearance in print, I had such 
a phrase as this sent to me in a newspaper-cutting (lest I 
should fail to see it) : the writer spoke of " the Chorleys and 
chawbacons of literature." Not merely were such coarse per- 
sonalities sent to me, but they were righteously forwarded to 
my family at Liverpool, some of whom they succeeded in 
troubling greatly. I can truly say that they only disturbed me 
inasmuch as they placed hard material obstacles in the way of 
my maintaining myself as a literary man. 

Some of the specimens of abuse with which I was favored 
were diverting, rather than offensive, by their utter vulgarity. 
I kept by me, for some years, a collection of such flowers of 
rhetoric, the most exquisite of which was a letter written in 
very black ink, beginning, 

"You Worm!! !" 

That this prevailing and explicable antipathy was a serious 
injury to me, whenever I attempted appearance before the 
public, is beyond doubt. To some degree one may live it 
down ; but there are many who to the last of an author's career 
will revert to it, and their judgments be influenced accordingly, 
in obedience to the popular adage that " where there is smoke 
there must be fire." 

I cannot call to mind a writer more largely neglected, sneered 
at, and grudgingly analyzed than myself. I can truly say, how- 
ever, that seriously as this most unnatural treatment was a 
hinderance, whether to the securing that ease of spirit which 
ought to accompany composition, or in maintaining a modest 
position as regards gain without an incessant and anxious 
struggle, I have suffered all my life singularly little from bitter- 
ness under severe criticism on what I have written. I do not 



8 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

remember, in this relation between myself and my fellow men, 
to have ever felt resentment, still less a desire to retaliate. 
I deserve no credit for this patience or indifference, as may be. 
It was, in great part, a case of temperament ', in small part, of 
resolution to go on without looking to the right or left, or 
listening to the " black stones n of the Arabian tale, which 
mocked and tried to affright the pilgrim as he struggled up the 
steep hill ; nor should I have stated the case, save for the 
assistance of those who may come after me. Let them count 
the cost of the struggle before they begin ; and once having 
begun, keep their minds as clear as they can of comparison 
and irritation. 

Who would not sicken at times of literature, literary men, 
and literary things when such sweetmeats as the following 
come by post — this with a third edition of a Preface to 
" Satan " Montgomery's " Luther," which had been sharply 
handled in the " Athenaeum,'' but had never even been seen 
by H. F. C. ? 

" Be sure your sin will find you out ! One who is well ac- 
quainted with Mr. Chorley's infamous trade of defamation and 
envy against his betters, in the ' Athenaeum,' commends the 
inclosed to his conscience. If not yet too indurated, it will 
suggest moral justice to a mean and malignant trader in litera- 
ture ! " 

Miss Landon. 

At the time when I joined the " Athenaeum," its vigor and 
value to the world of letters were not acknowledged as they 
have since been. The " Literary Gazette," conducted by Mr. 
Jerdan, who was the puppet of certain booksellers, and dis- 
pensed praise or blame at their bidding, and it may be feared 
"for a consideration," was in the ascendancy ; and its conduc- 
tors and writers spared no pains to attack, to vilipend, and to 
injure, so far as they could, any one who had to do with a 
rising journal so merciless in its exposure of a false and 
demoralizing system. 

It would not be easy to sum up the iniquities of criticism 
(the word is not too strong), perpetrated at the instance of 



MISS LANDON. 9 

publishers, by a young writer and a woman, who was in the 
grasp of Mr. Jerdan, and who gilt or blackened all writers of 
the time, as he ordained. When I came to London to join 
the " Athenaeum," she was " flinging about fire " as a journal- 
ist in sport, according to the approved fashion of her school, 
and not a small quantity of the fire fell on the head of one 
who belonged to "the opposition" camp, like myself. It is 
hard to conceive any one, by flimsiness and by flippancy, 
made more distasteful to those who did not know her, than 
was Miss Landon. 

For years, the amount of gibing sarcasm and imputation 
to which I was exposed, was largely swelled by this poor 
woman's commanded spite. That it did not make me seri- 
ously unhappy was probably an affair of temperament ; those 
who would have been pained by it were, happily, beyond reach 
of hearing. But that these things most assuredly had a bad 
influence on my power as a worker, I do not entertain the 
slightest doubt. Perhaps it is only the lingering vanity of an 
elderly man which I mistake for conviction. 

In spite of the miserably low standard of her literary 
morality, Miss Landon (for a while put forward as Mrs. 
Hemans's rival) was meant for better things. She was in- 
complete, but she was worthy of being completed ; she was 
ignorant, but she was quick, and capable of receiving culture, 
had she been allowed a chance. If she was unrefined, it was 
because she had fallen into the hands of a coarse set of 
men — the Tories of a provincial capital — such as then 
made a noise and a flare in the " Noctes Ambrosianae " of 
" Blackwood's Magazine," second-hand followers of Lockhart 
and Professor Wilson and Theodore Hook ; the most noisy 
and most reprehensible of whom — and yet one of the clever- 
est — was Dr. Maginn. Not merely did they, at a very early 
period of the girl's career, succeed in bringing her name into 
a coarse repute, from which it never wholly extricated itself, 
but, by the ridiculous exaggeration of such natural gifts as 
she possessed (no doubt accompanied by immediate gain), 
flattered her into the idea that small further cultivation was 



lO HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

required by one who could rank with a Baillie, a Tighe, a 
Hemans — if not their superior, at least their equal. Further, 
she was not fortunate in her home position, called on to labor 
incessantly for the support of those around her. All this 
resulted in what may be called a bravado in her intercourse 
with the public, which excited immense distaste among those 
who were not of the coterie to which she belonged. 

As years went on, the ephemeral success of Miss Landon's 
verses subsided : and, indeed, she had rendered herself next to 
incapable of anything like a sustained effort, though some of 
her smaller lyrics were more earnest and more real in their 
sentiment and sweetness than her earlier love-tales and ditties 
had been. There was amendment, too, in her versification. 
She attempted drama, in tlfe tragedy, I think, of " Castruccio 
Castrucani," but without the smallest success. She wrote a 
volume of sacred verse, which was sentimental rather than 
serious. She took Annuals in hand, but the result was the 
same, and it must have been felt so by herself. At last she 
began to write imaginative prose ; and the coterie who sup- 
ported her blew the trumpet before her first novel, " Romance 
and Reality," as no one would do nowadays were a new 
Dickens, or a new Bulwer on the threshold. But she held 
out bravely ; wearing out life and health and hope, as all 
who work on ground which is not solid must do ; bravely 
holding up those who looked to her for position and subsist- 
ence in life, and keeping up before such of the friends she 
retained, and such of the society as she mixed in sparingly, 
those hectic, hysterical high-spirits, which are even more de- 
pressing to meet than any melancholy. There was a certain 
audacious brightness in her talk ; but it was only false glitter, 
not real brilliancy ; it was smart, not sound. 

The truth of Miss Landon's story and her situation had for 
some time oozed out ; it was felt that her literary reputation 
had been exaggerated ; that her social position was, so to say, 
not the pleasantest in the world. Those who had, in some 
measure, compromised her, were in no case to assist her ; 
those who had stood aside had become aware of the deep 



MISS LANDON. I I 

and real struggle and sorrow which had darkened her whole 
life, from its youth upwards, and the many, many pleas for 
forbearance implied in such knowledge. 

There came a time for the recognition of these. A relative 
of hers was proposed to fill an office, in the giving away of 
which literary men had some words to say. And he was un- 
impeachably eligible. He had rested on her support. It was 
right that her devotion to her own family should not be al- 
lowed to drag her down ; that her literary industry should be 
recognized — especially now, when it was failing of its reward. 
It was felt among some of us, that, in this matter, there was a 
claim to be upheld. I had to see her on the subject. It was, 
for both of us, an awkward visit. She received me with an 
air of astonishment and bravado, talking with a rapid and un- 
refined frivolity, the tone and taste of which were most dis- 
tasteful, and the flow difficult to interrupt. When, at last, 
I was allowed to explain my errand, the change was instant 
and painful. She burst into a flood of hysterical tears. " Oh !" 
she cried, " you don't know the ill-natured things I have written 
about you ! " From that time I saw her occasionally, and am 
satisfied of the sincerity of her feelings. Then, I came to 
perceive how much of what was good and real in her nature 
had been strangled and poisoned by the self-interested 
thoughtlessness of those who should have shielded her. Some 
growing conviction of this it was, I have always thought, 
which drove her into a desire for escape, and this into her 
marriage. It seemed next to impossible that the husband she 
chose could have anything in common with her. Her melan- 
choly death (curiously foreshadowed in her " Ethel Church- 
ill"), painfully sudden as it was, may have delivered her 
from heart-ache and weariness to come. But her ill-fortune 
pursued her after the catastrophe at Cape Coast Castle, 
caused by her mistake of one medicine for another. It 
would be worse than fruitless to rake up the scandals to 
which this gave rise, and which had their usual complement 
of malicious listeners. "Very sorrowful," says the author, 
"is the life of a woman;" but of all the lives of literary 



12 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY, 

women which I have studied, that of L. E. L. seems to me the 
most sorrowful. 

The Chevalier Neukomm. 

Of all the men of talent whom I have ever known, he was 
the most deliberate in turning to account every gift, every 
talent, every creature-comfort to be procured from others ; 
withal, shrewd, pleasant, universally educated beyond the gen- 
erality of the musical composers of his period. A man who 
had been largely " knocked about," and had been hardened by 
the process into the habit or duty of knocking about any one 
whom he could fascinate into believing in him. Never was 
any man more adroit in catering for his own comforts — in 
administering vicarious benevolence. Once having gained en- 
trance into a house, he remained there, with a possession oi 
self-possession the like of which I have never seen. There 
was no possibility of dislodging him, save at his own deliberate 
will and pleasure. He would have hours and usages regulated 
in conformity with his own tastes ; and these were more regu- 
lated by individual whimsy than universal convenience. He 
must dine at one peculiar hour — at no other. Having em- 
braced homoeopathy to its fullest extent, he would have his own 
dinner expressly made and provided. The light must be regu- 
lated to suit his eyes — the temperature to fit his endurance. 
But, as rarely fails to be the case in this world of shy or syco- 
phantic persons, he compelled obedience to his decrees ; and, 
on the strength of a slender musical talent, a smooth diplomatic 
manner, and some small insight into other worlds than his 
own, he maintained a place, in its lesser sphere, as astound- 
ing and autocratic as that of the great Samuel Johnson, when 
he ruled the household of the Thrales with a rod of iron. Neu- 
komm had no artistic vigor or skill to insure a lasting popu- 
larity for his music. It h**s passed and gone into the limbo of 
oblivion. Yet, for some five years, he held a first place in Eng- 
land, and was in honored request at every great provincial 
music-meeting. He was at Manchester ; at Derby, where, I 
think, his oratorio " Mount Sinai " was produced ; most prom- 



//ERR MOSCHELES. I 3 

inent at Birmingham, for which he wrote his unsuccessful 
" David " — for a while called " The King of Birmingham. ' 
I question whether a note of his music lives in any man's rec- 
ollection, unless it be " The Sea," to the spirited and stirring 
words of Barry Cornwall. 

This song made at once a striking mark on the public ear 
and heart. The spirited setting bore out the spirited words ; 
and the spirited singing and saying of both by Mr. Henry 
Phillips had no small share in the brilliant success. I can 
only call to mind another modern sea song — Bishop's "0 
Firm as Oak," which in the least holds its place by the side 
of Neukomm's in right of merit. Neither are sung for the 
moment. Both may return. The Chevalier was as cunning 
in his generation as his poet was the reverse. On the strength 
of this success and his partner's simplicity, the musician be- 
guiled the poet to write some half-hundred lyrics for music, 
the larger number of which are already among the classics of 
English song, in grace and melody recalling the best of our 
old dramatists, and surprisingly little touched by conceit. Will 
it be believed, that for such admirable service the noble- 
hearted poet was never even offered the slightest share in 
gains, which would have had no existence save for his sug- 
gesting genius, by the miserable Chevalier ? It only dawned 
on him that his share of the songs must have some value, 
when the publishers, without hint or solicitation, in acknowl- 
edgment of the success, sent a slight present of jewelry to a 
member of his family. It is sadly true that too many musi- 
cians have shown a like disregard of the laws of meum and 
tuum in regard to the verse they have set. The case, in every 
one's interest, cannot be too plainly stated ; but a more fla- 
grant illustration does not exist than the dealings of Neukomm 
with the author of " Mirandola." 

Herr Moscheles. 

Enough of a distasteful subject. My own gains from the 
notice of the Chevalier were of a different, quality — gains be- 
yond the desert of an obscure rhymster trying to struggle into 



14 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

print. It was on one of those hurried visits to London, with- 
out the excitement of which, the hated drudgery of mercantile 
life among uncongenial spirits would have become intolerable, 
that M. Neukomm introduced me to one of the happiest mu- 
sical households and family circles I have ever known — that 
of Moscheles. This was only a few years after his marriage 
Our good understanding remained unbroken till the last hour 
of his life. All that he had of what was genial in his nature, 
and agreeable in his life I was permitted to enjoy. In his 
house were to be met the best celebrities of literature and art. 
The standard of general cultivation, morals, and manners 
among musicians has risen largely during the last five-and- 
thirty years ; but there has been, I repeat, no ground such as 
that house offered, where the best of the best and the newest of 
the new met on such perfect terms of ease and equality. I have 
good reason to speak of it with most grateful remembrance. 

I have never known a man in whom two entirely distinct na- 
tures — those of excessive caution and equal liberality — were 
so intimately combined. The caution in money matters, the 
liberality in time, counsel, interest given without stint or envy 
to all contemporary or rising artists. I detected no trace of 
jealousy in his nature ; on the other hand, a curiosity to make 
acquaintance with all that was new or promising, a,nd as much 
liberality of judgment as was consistent with a closeness of 
character, which intensified his nationality. 

N. P. Willis. 

In the autumn of 1834, while travelling in Italy, Mr. N. P. 
Willis had met with a gentleman well acquainted with my 
elder brother. This gentleman had given a letter for my 
brother to Mr. Willis, who gathered introductions to persons 
of every degree of fortune or of every circle more solicitously 
than any one whom I have ever seen. Mr. Willis, meeting me 
by chance at a friend's house, naturally enough mistook me for 

the person to whom Mr. 's letter was addressed, and I 

was as naturally glad to make an agreeable acquaintance. And 
agreeable I found Mr. Willis, and kindly in his way, though 



N. P. WILLIS. I 5 

flimsy in his acquirements and flashy in his manners — a thor- 
ough literary getter-on, but a better-natured one than many 1 
have since known. At that time of my life, it seemed a neces- 
sity for me to have some one to talk over my schemes with, 
and to show my attempts to. He, too, seemed to have the 
same fancy, though it was an unequal bargain, since he wrote 
much less, because far more carefully than I. In short, it was 
an intimacy that could not, under any circumstances, have 
lasted long, but which, while it did last, was pleasant to both. 

There was something very agreeable and fascinating in his 
manner — a sort of gentle flattery that made you feel as if he 
had become peculiarly interested in you. I have been always 
too prone to attach myself to any one who would let me, so 
took him up at once on his own showing. Then he was a lit- 
erary man of my own age, and about my own means, with as 
much less of thought as he had more of cleverness. And I 
believe, for a time, he did like me in his way ; gave me good 
advice about dress, manners, etc., — a little too magnificently 
I now think — and certainly was of use to me in making me 
modulate my voice. We passed a part of every day together ; 
dreamed dreams, and schemed schemes, and canvassed our 
tailors' bills, etc. He read to me his " Melanie " in progress, 
and, which was better, listened while I read to him. With 
great diffidence I sent through him a chanson to my Lady 
Blessington, who was then his great patroness and friend ; 
and this he gave her with many kind words. It was " Love at 
Sea ; " on which she expressed a wish to see me. 

[Chorley's acquaintance with Willis appears to have closed 
with the latter's departure for Scotland, full of the intention 
(as he professed himself) of marrying a Scotch lady with red 
hair, who (according to his usual story) had fallen in love with 
him. But he had fancied that Lady Blessington had already 
been smitten ! As he had a box full of locks of hair, trophies 
of his continental Don Giovannism, perhaps he was excus- 
able.] 

Lady Blessington. 

Lady Blessington was then gathering about her a circle of 



1 6 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

the younger literary men of London, in addition to the older 
and more distinguished friends made by her before her wid- 
owhood. I went with Willis to the studio of Mr. Rothwell, 
who was engaged on a half-length portrait of her, which he 
never, I believe, completed, and was introduced to her. She 
said a few kind words in that winning and gracious manner 
which no woman's welcome can have ever surpassed ; and 
from that moment till the day of her death in Paris, I expe- 
rienced only a long course of kind constructions and good 
offices. She was a steady friend, through good report and 
evil report, for those to whom she professed friendship. Such 
faults as she had belonged to her position, to her past history, 
and to the disloyalty of many who paid court to her by paying 
court to her faults, and who then carried into the outer world 
depreciating reports of the wit, the banter, the sarcasm, and 
the epigram, which but for their urgings and incitements 
would have been always kindly, however mirthful. 

She must have had originally the most sunny of sunny na- 
tures. As it was, I have never seen anything like her vivacity 
and sweet cheerfulness during the early years when I knew 
her. She had a singular power of entertaining herself by her 
own stories ; the keenness of an Irishwoman in relishing fun 
and repartee, strange turns of language, and bright touches of 
character. A fairer, kinder, more universal recipient of every- 
thing that came within the possibilities of her mind, I have 
never known. I think the only genuine author whose merits 
she was averse to admit was Hood ; and yet she knew Ra- 
belais, and delighted in " Elia." It was her real disposition 
to dwell on beauties rather than faults. Critical she could be, 
and as judiciously critical as any woman I have ever known, 
but she never seemed to be so willingly. When a poem was 
read to her, or a book given to her, she could always touch on 
the t>est passage, the bright point ; and rarely missed the 
purpose of the work, if purpose it had. When I think of the 
myriads I have known who, on such occasions, betwixt a de- 
sire to show sagacity, slowness to appreciate, or want of tact 
in expression, flounder on betwixt commonplace which is not 



LADY BLESSING TON. I J 

complimentary, and disquisitions that are rather hard to bear, 
I return to her powers and ways of accepting as among the 
lost graces, which have been replaced (say the optimists) by 
something truer and more solid. I doubt it. 

Her taste in everything was towards the gay, the superb, 
the luxurious ; but, on the whole, excellently good. Her eye 
was as quick as lightning ; her resources were many and orig- 
inal. It will not be forgotten how, twenty years ago, she as- 
tounded the Opera-goers by appearing in her box with a plain 
transparent cap, which the world in its ignorance, called a 
Quaker's cap ; and the best of all likenesses of her, in date 
later than the lovely Lawrence portrait, is that drawing by 
Chalon. in which this " tire " is represented, with some addi- 
tional loops of ribbon. So, too, her houses in Seamore Place 
and at Kensington Gore were full of fancies which have since 
passed into fashions, and which seemed all to belong and to 
agree with herself. Had she been the selfish Sybaritic woman 
whom many who hated her, without knowing her, delighted to 
represent her, she might have indulged these joyous and costly 
humors with impunity ; but she was affectionately, inconsider- 
ately liberal — liberal to those of her own flesh and blood who 
had misrepresented and maligned her, and who grasped at 
whatever of bounty she yielded them, with scarcely a show of 
cordiality in return, and who spread the old, envious, depre- 
ciating tales before the service had well been done an hour ! 

What her early life had been, I cannot pretend to say. I 
have heard her speak of it herself once or twice, when moved 
by very great emotion or injustice from without. And what 
woman, in speaking of past error, is unable to represent her- 
self as more sinned against than sinning ? I have heard, on 
the other hand, some who professed an intimate knowledge of 
her private concerns and past adventures (which profession is 
often more common than correct), attack her with a bitterness 
which left her no excuse, no virtue, no single redeeming 
quality — representing her as a cold-blooded and unscrupulous 
adventuress, only fit to figure in some novel by a Defoe, which 
women are not to read. That this cannot have been true, 
2 



1 8 HENRY F0THERG1LL CHORLEY. 

every friend of hers will bear me out in asserting — at J she 
kept her friends. The courage with which she clung to her 
attachments long after they brought her only shame and sor- 
row, spoke for the affectionate heart, which no luxury could 
spoil and no vicissitude sour. 

Count D'Orsay. 

The wit of Count d'Orsay was more quaint than anything 
I have heard from Frenchmen (there are touches of like 
quality in Rabelais) — more airy than the brightest London 
wit of my time, those of Sydney Smith and Mr. Fonblanque 
not excepted. It was an artist's wit, capable of touching off a 
character by one trait told in a few odd words. The best ex- 
amples of such esprit when written down look pale and me- 
chanical : something of the aroma dies on the lips of the 
speaker ; but an anecdote or two may be tried, bringing up as 
they do the magnificent presence, and joyous, prosperous 
voice and charming temper of him to whom they belong. 

When Sir Henry Bulwer was sent on a diplomatic mission to 
Constantinople, " Quelle beiise" was the Count's exclamation, 
" to send him there among those Turks, with their beards and 
their shawls — those big handsome fellows — a little gray man 
like that ! They might as well have sent one whitebait down 
the Dardanelles to give the Turks an idea of English fish." 

I have heard the Count tell, how, when he was in England 
for the first time (very young, Very handsome, and not abashed), 
he was placed at some dinner-party next the late Lady Hol- 
land. That singular woman, who adroitly succeeded in ruling 
and retaining a distinguished circle, longer than either fascin- 
ation or tyranny might singly have accomplished, chanced that 
day to be in one of her imperious humors. She dropped her 
napkin ; the Count picked it up gallantly ; then her fan, then 
her fork, then her spoon, then her glass ; and as often her 
neighbor stooped and restored the lost article. At last, how- 
ever, the patience of the youth gave way, and on her dropping 
her napkin again, he turned and called one of the footmen 
behind him " Put my convert on the floor," said he. " I 



COUNT D'ORSAY. 



19 



will finish my dinner there ; it will be so much more con- 
venient to my Lady Holland." 

There was every conceivable and inconceivable story cur- 
rent in London of the extravagance of the " King of the 
French" (as the Count d'Orsay was called among the sporting 
folk in the Vale of Aylesbury) ; but it was never told that he 
had been cradled as it were in an ignorance of the value of 
money, such as those will not believe possible who have been 
less indulged and less spoiled, and who have been less 
pleasant ^to indulge and to spoil than he was. But extrava- 
gance is like collection as a passion. Once let it be owned to 
exist, and there will be found people to forgive it, and to feed 
it, and to find it with new objects. When an American gentle- 
man, the gifted Mr. Charles Sumner, was in England, his 
popularity in society became, justly, so great and so general, 
that his friends began to devise what circle there was to show 
him which he had not yet seen, what great house that he had 
not yet visited. And so it was with Count d'Orsay. His 
grandmother, Madame Crawford, delighted in his beauty, and 
his sauciness, and his magnificent tastes. When he joined 
his regiment, she fitted him out with a service of plate, which 
made the boy the laughingstock of his comrades. Whether it 
was broken up into bits, or played for at lansquenet, or sunk 
in a marsh, I cannot recollect ; but one or other catastrophe 
happened, I do know. He was spoiled during most of his life 
by every one whom he came near ; and to one like myself, 
endowed with many luxurious tastes, but whom the discipline 
of poverty had compelled prematurely to weigh and to count, 
it was a curious sight to see, as I often did in the early days 
of our acquaintance, how he seemed to take it for granted 
that everybody had any conceivable quantity of five-pound 
notes. . To this fancy the Lichfield, Beaufort, Chesterfield, 
Massey Stanley set, among whom he was conversant, minis- 
tered largely. He spent their money for them royally, and 
made them fancy they were inventing all manner of sumptuous 
and original ways of spending it. When the crash and the 
downfall came, and the Count owned himself beaten, ruined, 



20 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

" done for at last " (as the familiar phrase runs), he said, 
"Well, at least, if I have nothing else, I will have the best 
umbrella that ever was." The wish was granted by a lady, 
who brought the immured man of pleasure in difficulties an 
umbrella from Paris, with a handle set in jewels. That was a 
type of Count d'Orsay's ideas of poverty and bad weather, and 
retrenchment ! 

But never was Sybarite so little selfish as he. He loved 
extravagance — waste, even. He would give half a sovereign 
to a box-keeper at a theatre as a matter of course, and not 
ostentation ; but he could also bestow time, pains, money, and 
recollection, with a munificence and a delicacy such as showed 
what a real princely stuff there was in the nature of the man 
whom Fortune had so cruelly spoiled. He had " the memory 
of the heart " in perfection. 

Theodore Hook. 

Aug. 15th, 1835. — Last night Westmacott told a Hookism 
at Lady Blessington's worthy of being kept. He was at some 
large party or other where the lady of the house was more 
than usually coarsely anxious to get him to make sport for 
her guests. A ring formed round him of people only wanting 
a word's encouragement to burst out into a violent laugh. 
" Do, Mr. Hook ; do favor us ! " said the lady for the hun- 
dredth time. " Indeed, madam, I can't ; I can't, indeed. I 
am like that little bird, the canary ; can't lay my eggs when 
any one is looking at me." 

Aug. iSth, 1835. — I must post one anecdote of Theodore 

Hook He was dining at Powell's the other day, to meet 

Lord Canterbury, and the talk fell wponfeu Jack Reeve 

" Yes," said Theodore, when they were speaking of his 
funeral, " I was out that day : / met him in his private box y 
going to the pit / " 

Anecdote of Byron. 

The following anecdote of Byron, told on the authority of 
his travelling companion, Mr. Trelawney, a frequent visitor at 



MICHAEL ANGELO DRAWINGS. 21 

Gore House, is eminently characteristic. When Byron, Shel- 
ley, and Trelawney were in Italy together, some small secret 
(perhaps a bit of London scandal) had come over in an Engli sh 
letter, of which Shelley and Trelawney were the sole posses- 
sors. He (Byron) was most eager to discover this, and, when 
riding out with the latter, went to the childish length of jump- 
ing off his horse, declaring that he would kneel down in the 
middle of the road and never rise — that he would lie down 
and rot — and let his companion ride over him, etc., etc., if he 
was not satisfied. On which, Trelawney improvised some 
historiette or other, so that Lord Byron got up again con- 
tented. A few minutes afterwards, La Guiccioli's carriage 
appeared in sight. Lord Byron rode up to it, brimful of his 
secret, which he presently discharged upon his do7ina. When 
he rejoined his companion, Trelawney upbraided him with 
treachery. " Damn it ! what's a secret good for else ? Do 
you think I would have done as I did if I had not meant to 
tell it ? " His chagrin and humiliation may be imagined on 
being made acquainted with the real state of the case. 

Michael Angelo Drawings. 

Just returned from looking at the Michael Angelo drawings. 
Here again one feels the difference — how strongly ! — be- 
tween those who work for immortality and those who manu- 
facture for the hour. I expected anatomical precision and 
grandeur of conception, of course, but hardly that I should be 
able (so little experienced in old pictures) to throw myself 
loose enough of the conventionalisms of a taste nourished 
among modern drawing-room works, to be able to enjoy and 
appreciate as much as I did. One or two things struck me 
particularly. All the Christs have a divinity about them I 
never saw before in any painted idea of the Ecce Homo. 
One in particular, crucified between the two thieves, though 
sketchy compared with some others, affected me : the two 
outside figures were writhing in the agonies of ani7nal death ; 
in Him, the agonies of the last hour had no power over the 
patience and sweetness of his nature. The head is upturned 



22 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

almost with adoration ; the limbs languid and stiffening, out 
still calm. 

Edwin Forrest. 

However much Macready moves one at the time by the 
subtle intellect of his personifications, I never am much the 
better for it afterwards — never find a word, a look, an atti- 
tude written on my heart. There are certain points of Mr. 
Forrest's playing that I shall never forget to my dying day. 
There is a force, without violence, in his passionate parts, 
which he owes much to his physical conformation ; but which, 
thrown into the body of an infirm old king (his Lear was very 
kingly), is most awful and withering ; as, for instance, where 
he slides down upon his knees, with — 

"For, as I am a man, I think this lady 
To be my child, Cordelia." 

Walter Savage Landor. 

May %th, 1838. — Yesterday evening, I had a very rare treat 
— a dinner at Kensington tete-a-tete with Lady Blessington 
and Mr. Landor ; she talking her best, brilliant and kindly, 
and without that touch of self-consciousness which she some- 
times displays when worked up to it by flatterers and gay 
companions. Landor, as usual, the very finest man's head I 
have ever seen, and with all his Johnsonian disposition to 
tyrannize and lay down the law in his talk, restrained and re- 
fined by an old-world courtesy and deference towards his 
bright hostess, for which chivalry is the only right word. 
There was never any one less of " a pretty man ; " but his 
tale of having gone from Bristol to Bath, to find a moss-rose 
for a girl who had desired one (I suppose for some ball), was 
all natural and graceful, and charming enough. 

Isaac Disraeli. 

Well, this, with a thousand other delightful things which 
there is no use remembering, went by when Mr. Disraeli the 
elder was announced. I had never seen him before ; and, as 
of course they talked and I heard, I had the luxury of undis- 



I 



ISAAC DISRAELI. 



23 



turbed leisure wherein to use eyes and ears. An old gentle- 
man, strictly, in his appearance ; a countenance which at first 
glance (owing, perhaps, to the mouth, which hangs) I fancied 
slightly chargeable with stolidity of expression, but which de- 
veloped strong sense as it talked ; a rather soigne style of 
dress for so old a man, and a manner good-humored, compli- 
mentary (to Gebir), discursive and prosy, bespeaking that en- 
grossment and interest in his own pursuits which might be 
expected to be found in a person so patient in research and 
collection. But there is a tone of tht philosophe (or I fancied 
it), which I did not quite like ; and that tone (addressing the 
instinct rather than the judgment) which is felt or imagined to 
bespeak (how shall it be ?) absence of high principle. No one 
can be more hardy in his negation than Mr. Fonblanque ; in 
no one a sneer be more triumphantly incarnate — and it is 
sometimes very withering and painful ; but he gives you the 
impression of considering destruction and denial to be his 
mission ; whereas there is an easy optimism and expediency 
associated with my idea of Mr. Disraeli, which, while it makes 
his opinions less salient, increases their offense. This is very 
hardy in the way of generalization ! I did not like the man- 
ner, above all things, in which he talked about the Slave 
Trade and Wilberforce's life — how the latter was set down 
as a mere canter. (Curious to hear this by his own fireside !) 
Then he advanced a theory about Shakespeare's having been 
long in exciting the notice he deserved, as compared with Ben 
Jonson and other dramatists, which was either incompletely 
stated, or based on shallow premises — most probably the 
former. It gave occasion to a very fine thing by Landor : 
" Yes, Mr. Disraeli, the oak and the ebony take a long time to 
grow up and make wood, but they last forever.' , 

M. Rio. 

[As a final sketch, may be quoted a scene at which Landoi 
was contrasted with M. Rio. This gentleman, the author of 
"Art Chretien," Chorley describes as one of the most pic- 
turesque-looking men he had seen, and the firsts he had en • 



24 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

countered of the honest and picturesque romanticists of the 
Middle Ages.] " An enthusiast but without that distressing 
measure of enthusiasm behind which I at least linger, and in 
proportion to the heat of which my mind, whether out of con- 
ceit or want of sincerity I know not, grows cold. On the oc- 
casion referred to, Landor was more petulant and paradoxical 
than I ever heard him, saying violent and odd rather than the 
clever and poetical things he is used to say ; of all things in 
the world, choosing to attack the Psalms. M. Rio, who is an 
Ultramontane Catholic, winced under this, as any man of good 
taste must have done. Lady Blessington put a stop, however, 
to this very displeasing talk by saying, in her arch, inimitable 
way, ' Do write something better, Mr. Landor. '" 

Lord Lytton. 

We walked home together (from Lady Blessington's), and in 
his cloak and in the dusk he unfolded more of himself to me 
than I had yet seen ; though I may say that I had guessed 
pretty much of what I did see — an egotism — a vanity — all 
thrown up to the surface. Yes, he is a thoroughly satin char- 
acter ; but then it is the richest satin. Whether it will wear 
as well as other less glossy materials remains to be seen. 
There was something inconceivably strange to me in his 
dwelling, with a sort of hankering, upon the Count d'Orsay's 
physical advantages ; something beneath the dignity of an 
author, my fastidiousness fancied, in the manner in which he 
spoke of his own works, saying that the new ones only inter- 
ested him as far as they were experi7nents. It is a fine, ener- 
getic, inquisitive, romantic mind, if I mistake not, that has 
been blighted and opened too soon. There wants the repose, 
" the peace that passeth all understanding," which I must 
believe (and if it be a delusion, I hope I shall never cease to 
believe) is the accompaniment of the highest mind. 

A little later, after a tete-a-tete dinner with Bulwer at the 
Reform Club, Chorley writes : " I found all my judgments con- 
firmed by further experience, both as to cleverness and self- 
conceit. I am not quite sure about the heart, or its opposite ; 



S YDNE Y SMITH. 2 5 

but it is infinitely amusing to discover what there is no escap- 
ing from, that he makes personal appearance his idol, and 
values Voltaire as much on being a tall man as on his satires, 
or essays, etc. It is unlucky to make so many valets dt 
chambre of all one's acquaintances, when a little reserve and 
calmness of mind might make a tolerable hero of a man. 

[The differing estimates which he entertained of Lord Lyt- 
ton's powers as a novelist, and as a dramatist, have been ad- 
verted to elsewhere. At one of these expressions of critical 
independence the author seems to have taken umbrage, and a 
stop was thus put to an acquaintance which did not promise to 
be prosperous.] 

Sydney Smith. 

Sydney Smith was the only wit, perhaps, on record, whom 
brilliant social success had done nothing to spoil or harden ; a 
man who heartened himself up to enjoy, and to make others 
enjoy, by the sound of his own genial laugh ; whose tongue 
was as keen as a Damascus blade when he had to deal with 
bigotry or falsehood or affectation ; but whose forbearance 
and gentleness to those, however obscure, whom he deemed 
honest, were as healing as his sarcasm could be vitriolic. Of 
all that passed under Lady Blessington's roof, the wildest 
stories were current in the outer world, among women of 
genius especially, who hated with a quintessence of feminine 
bitterness, a woman able to turn to account, so brilliantly as 
Lady Blessington did, the difficulties of her position, inevitable 
because referable to the events of her early life. Lady Hol- 
land — who ruled her subjects with a rod of iron, and who,, 
supported by her lord's urbanity, his literary distinction and 
political influence, ventured on an amount of capricious inso- 
lence to the obscure, such as counterbalanced the recorded 
deeds of munificence by which her name was known abroad 
and at home — had not a more distinguished court of men 
around her than Lady Blessington assembled. It was a duel 
betwixt gall at Kensington and wormwood at Gore House. 
Sydney Smith was one of Lady Holland's " court-cards," and 
was, naturally enough, prepared to receive her tales of what 



26 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY 

passed in the smaller but livelier Kensington household. On 
one occasion, at the house of a third person, I heard him, 
primed with her slander, speak of the high gambling by which 
Lady Blessington, at the instance of d'Orsay, lured foolish 
youths of cash and of quality to Gore House. The fact was, 
there never was such a thing there as play, or the shadow of 
play — not even a rubber of whist. I stayed in the house — I 
was there habitually and perpetually during many years, early 
and late, and as habitually and perpetually was driven to my 
own lodging at midnight, by Count d'Orsay, who had a school- 
boy's delight in breaking the regulations of St. James's Park, 
which then excluded every one save royal personages from 
passing after midnight. After this he would go to Crock- 
ford's, and play ; but with these matters Lady Blessington 
had nothing to do, beyond the original mistake of harboring 
so exhausting an inmate as he was. This is a digression nec- 
essary to that which is to follow. When I heard the scandal 
retailed as above by Sydney Smith — told as a fact by such 
a just and good man, and yet with a condiment of such mirth 
as makes scandal sweeter — I felt that I must speak out. It 
was cruelly hard to do so, but I did get out the real version of 
the story. " Thank you," said the old wit to the obscure 
penny-a-liner ; " thank you for setting me right." And from 
that time -till the day of his death his kindness to me was un- 
broken. 

Before his death he called in his letters, with a view to their 
destruction ; averse to the misuse which could be made, ac- 
cording to the flagrant fashion of our time, of every scrap of 
written paper, by the literary ghouls who fatten their purses in 
the guise of biographers. Before one series of such intimate 
and lively communications was delivered up to him, an in- 
timate and a prized friend, to whom they were addressed, 
asked him whether he had any objection to my reading them. 
" No," was the answer ; " he is a gentleman." The sanction 
gives a relish beyond all price to my recollection of the exqui- 
site whimsies, the keen appreciation of character, and tLe Jus- 
tice in judgment which these letters contained. 



GEORGE GROTE, 2J 

George Grote. 

The Historian of Greece, one of the few serious English 
men of letters who has made his mark all the world over, 
within the past half century, was for many years^ indulgentl) 
kind to me. A more noble-hearted and accomplished gentle- 
man than he who has departed full of years, and rich in hon- 
ors. I have never seen. When the word " gentleman " is used, 
it is with express reference to that courtesy and consideration 
of manner, which appears to me dying out of the world. Four 
men that I have known, the late Due de Gramont, the Duke of 
Ossuna, the late Duke of Beaufort, and Mr. Grote, in their high 
breeding and deference to women, in their instinctive avoid- 
ance of any topic or expression which could possibly give pain, 
recur to me as unparagoned. But the three men first named 
had little beyond their manner by way of charming or influ- 
encing society. 1 Mr. Grote, as a man holding those most 
advanced ideas which were at war with every aristocratic tra- 
dition and institution, a man with vigorous purposes, and 
ample and various stores of thought, might well have been 
allowed to dispense with form and smoothness and ceremony. 
But he showed how these could be combined with the most 
utter sincerity. If, at times, he was elaborate in conversation, 
with little humor of expression, though not without a sense of 
it in others, he was never overweening. He stands in a place 
of his own, among all the superior men to whom I have ever 
looked up. 

He was a skeptic, as regards matters of religious faith, to 
the very core. But he was keenly alive to the truth, that to 
force extreme opinions, not called for, on those having other 

1 Yet the Spanish grandee could at once evade and rebuke a piece cf noble Eng- 
lish impertinence. Rumor had exaggerated the extent of the Duke's fortune and 
possessions; but they were notoriously very large — for Spain. I heard an Earl, 
whose name should have been a warrant for good taste and good breeding, ask him 
point blank, " What was the amount of his income ? " — there being, if I remember 
rightly, a wager at Crockford's to be settled by the answer. 'My lord," said the 
Duke, with the most imperturbable politeness, "I do not know your English 
money." 



28 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

convictions, is an abuse of freedom of thought and of speech 
which no large-minded man will permit himself. There was 
neither craft nor cowardice in this reticence. Had fortune, or 
worldly position, or life, depended on his falsifying his opin- 
ions, he is the last man I have ever known who would have 
done so. His uncompromising constancy to his peculiar opin- 
ions cost him all influence and support in Parliament, and 
was the cause of his early retirement from political life and 
action. 

With all his vast stores of knowledge, and his habits of uni- 
versal reading, were combined a taste for Art, and a certain 
amount of practical accomplishment not common among schol- 
ars so profound and so ripe. He was a lover rather than a 
judge of pictures ; he was an intelligent opera-goer, and had 
made some proficiency in learning to play on the violoncello. 
But in everything he undertook, whether it was of grave im- 
portance or of slighter pastime, his modesty was as remark- 
able as his earnestness and his courtesy. The completeness 
of the scholar and the gentleman strikes me more forcibly on 
retrospect than it did at the time when I was frequently in his 
society. It is fit that he should lie among the high-minded 
and lettered men who have made England great among the 
nations. But even were there no stone in the Abbey to hand 
his merits down for scholars and politicians to come to imi- 
tate, I am satisfied that his reputation will only brighten and 
deepen as years pass on, and new men take up the studies in 
which his honorable life was spent ; and the result of which 
has already a wide and lasting place in the world of letters. 

Samuel Rogers. 

I used to meet Rogers frequently at the Grotes', at the Kem- 
bles', at the Procters' ; and at the first house in very small 
parties, where I had an opportunity of hearing and seeing him 
closely. Few old men have ever shown a more mortifying be- 
havior to a young one than Mr. Rogers, from the first to the 
last, displayed towards me. There was no doubting the dis 
.ike which he had conceived for me, and which he took every 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 29 

possible pains to make me feel. I do not recollect ever to nave 
intruded myself on his notice, ever to have interrupted him in 
narration (an offense which he could not endure). In the so- 
ciety where I met him I never talked, for it was a delight to 
listen to Sydney Smith, and to Charles Austin, and to Mr. and 
Mrs. Grote. Perhaps Rogers thought my dress coxcombical, 
or my manner affected (an accusation under which I have lain 
all my life). Perhaps he did not forgive me for living as house- 
mate with a person for whom he openly professed antipathy. 
Whatever the cause might be, he did his best to make me feel 
small and uncomfortable ; and it was often done by repeating 
the same discouragement. The scene would be a dinner of 
eight ; at which he would say, loud enough to be heard, "Who 
is that young man with red hair ? " (meaning me). The answer 
would be, " Mr. Chorley," et cetera, et cetera. " Never heard 
of him before," was the rejoinder ; after which Rogers would 
turn to his dinner, like one who having disposed of a nuisance, 
might unfold his napkin, and eat his soup in peace. 

It has been fortunate for me all my life that unprovoked 
rudeness of this sort has never had any power over me, has 
never added to a physical nervousness, of itself sufficiently 
disqualifying, nor to a shyness, which I don't think has in- 
cluded moral cowardice. Those to whom I have attached my- 
self, and those in whom I have believed, have been able to 
give me any amount of pain. I have been hag-ridden all my 
life by an over-sensitiveness with respect to friends, and have 
suffered from my own jealous and exacting nature, from too 
much yearning for entire confidence and complete regard. But 
slights from acquaintances I have never heeded, more than I 
should heed a random call at my heels in the street. And 
thus the deliberate and avowed antipathy of Mr. Rogers (never 
orovoked by want of respect on my part) served only to amuse 
me, as a trait of character, and did not prevent my profiting, as 
well as I could, by all that was more genial in his nature and 
manners. It still seems to me a doubtful matter which of the 
two attributes was reality, which affectation ; the elegance and 
sympathy and delicacy he could throw into his intercourse with 



3Q HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

those whom he protected, or the acerbity, often displayed and 
directed without any conceivable reason, with which he pur- 
sued unaffected persons, or denounced everything in literature 
and art which did not suit him. His admiration, in some 
points showing a marvelous foresight, in others, hung so cu- 
riously far behind his time, as to puzzle all those who are apt 
to dream that liberality should exclude prejudice. As a young 
man collecting pictures, he showed an excellent courage in 
leaving all the beaten tracks of connoisseurship, to select, and 
enjoy, and recognize that which he felt to be good. He was 
one of the first in England who recognized ancient Italian 
painting, as having a beauty and an expression totally distinct 
from archaeological value ; not repelled by technical mistakes 
or audacities, provided the work was sincere. But as an old 
poet, who was ever so inhuman and perverse in sitting in 
judgment on the works of young poets as Rogers ? I have 
heard him absolutely venomous and violent (as much as so 
low-voiced a man could be) in dissection, or in wholesale 
abuse, of the verses of Tennyson,' Browning, Milnes ; and end 
his task of "perverse industry" (as Moore has somewhere 
happily designated such exhibitions) with such a sigh of satis- 
faction as might befit one to whom the extermination of vermin 
is not a profession, but a pleasure. 

In music, too, he was no less exclusive, no less vicious in 
reproof, but far more ignorant. How one, who had been 
hearing music for so many years, and who would never keep 
away from any place where it was going on, could have made 
so little progress in taste and knowledge as Rogers, used to 
excite my wonderment. Scott, jt is said, used to profess that 
he was totally devoid of musical sense, save such as enabled 
him to bear the burden to Mrs. Lockhart's ballads, or to sing 
after supper (as Moore has told) over the quaigh of whiskey. 
But I cannot but imagine that Rogers, with all his profession, 
was as meagrely gifted by nature as Scott had been, and that 
his culture had merely been applied to the fostering of those 
old associative prejudices which, however precious as pleas- 
ures of memory, have nothing to do with the good or ill of 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 3 I 

music. The name of Beethoven used to make him singularly 
active and acrid in epithet : instrumental music, of any kind, 
was " those fiddlers; " though he would lavish gracious com- 
pliments on a Kemble, an Arkwright, or a Grisi, or any 
woman who sung, no matter what, small matter how she sung, 
It was on the debatable land of music that I used to meet 
Mr. Rogers the most frequently since he came to many houses 
which I frequented, ostensibly to hear and to enjoy music ; 
and, sometimes, for the sake of getting a name or a fact, 
would even lay by his antipathy and ignorance of me, and ask, 
" What was going on ? " or, " whereabouts we were f " I re- 
member one night in particular, his religiously sitting through 
a fine performance of Beethoven's Mass in C, and perti- 
naciously appealing to me, from movement to movement, 
"Now is that good? — because I don 7 know!" "Now do 
you really understand that ? " 

The temptation to retort was strong : " What need to sit ? " 
— till one recollected the different world into which he had 
been born, the different atmosphere as regards Art, which he 
had breathed ; and admitted that the good of his willingness 
to listen ought to outweigh the bad of his arrogance in knock- 
ing down all that he could not understand. 

And very great and very bitter was that arrogance. One 
night Mrs. Sartoris had been singing a canzonet by Signor 
, who had accompanied her. When it was done, Rog- 
ers made the labor of crossing the room and going up to the 
pianoforte ; " What was that you have been singing ? " said 

he, in his low, clear voice. " A song of Signor ," was 

the answer ; " give me leave to introduce him to you." " I 
thought it was that man's ! " was the gracious reply ; " there s 
no tune in it." 

I have always considered myself the person to whom Rogers 
made his most gratuitously ill-natured speech, as under. It 
was at the Antient Concerts, on a night when the room was 
crowded, owing to a royal visit, and when every seat was oc- 
cupied. Mine was at the end of a bench, by the side of the 
Dowager Lady Essex (Miss Stephens that had been). She 



32 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

was one of Rogers' prime favorites ; even though she is in 
private as in public one of those gracious and gentle women 
against whom no exception can be taken. He loved to sit 
next her, and pay her those elegant and courteous compli- 
ments, the art of paying which is lost. When I saw the old 
gentleman creeping down the side avenue betwixt the benches, 
at a loss for a seat, I said, " Now I shall give up my place to 
Mr. Rogers ; good-night" While I was stooping for my hat, 
" Come," said she, in her cordial way, " come, Mr. Rogers, 
here is a seat for you by me." " Thank you," said the civil 
old gentleman, fixing his dead eyes on me, as I was doing my 
best to get out of the way ; " thank you ; but I don't like your 
company" 

I may tell you a companion story which I heard from the 
younger Westmacott the sculptor, who was rather a favorite 
with Rogers than otherwise. Westmacott had finished a bust, 
I believe, of Lord John Russell, and, being anxious that Lord 
John's friends should pronounce on the likeness, invited Mr. 
Rogers to his studio with that express view. The poet, I 
suppose, came on a bad day, for round and round the room he 
walked, and through and through the labyrinth of marbles, 
slowly and ponderingly, passing the bust in a marked manner. 
At last he paused, paused before one of those hunches of mar- 
ble which have only begun to assume human semblance, by 
the drill holes and compass marks with which the sculptor's 
men prepare the block for the sculptor's own chisel. Here he 
stopped and pointed with his finger, "/ think" said he, 
" thafs the best likeness here" 

Though I have done my best to produce a true picture of 
the humors of the Rogers I saw and met often, let me no less 
earnestly state my belief that the crookedness and the incivil- 
ity of these had nothing to do with his heart and his hand, 
when the one told the other to give. Rogers' hospitality to 
poets might be pleasant to himself, and no less so his hand- 
some reception of every handsome woman, but for the poor, 
struggling, suffering man of genius, and to the garret with its 
dirt and cold, without any charm or warmth or Southern pic- 



LADY MORGAN. 33 

turesque, he was, I believe, a delicate almoner, a liberal dis- 
tributor and a frequent visitor. Billious, vicious, cruel as he 
was with his tongue. Rogers was, I know, a kindly and inde- 
fatigable friend to many humble men, and to a few less hum- 
ble ones ; and at no period of his life, when his antipathy to 
me was the most rancorously expressed, should I have feared 
presenting to him the case of poor painter, poor poet, poor 
musician, or poor governess. Though I never did apply to 
Rogers for aid to others, I am personally cognizant of too 
many acts of munificence quietly done by him, and of which 
no trumpeting was or is possible, not to dwell on the good as 
warmly as I talk about the mischief unreservedly. 

Lady Morgan. 

One of the most peculiar and original literary characters 
whom I have ever known, was Sydney Lady Morgan, a com- 
position of natural genius, acquired accomplishments, audacity 
that flew at the highest game, shrewd thought, and research at 
once intelligent and superficial ; personal coquetries and affec- 
tations, balanced by sincere and strenuous family affections ; 
extreme liberality of opinions, religious and political ; ex- 
tremely narrow literary sympathies, united with a delight in all 
the most tinsel pleasures and indulgences of the most inane 
aristocratic society ; a genial love for Art, limited by the most 
inconceivable prejudices of ignorance ; in brief, a compound of 
the most startling contradictions, impossible to be overlooked 
or forgotten, though possible to be described in two ways — 
both true, yet the one diametrically opposite to the other. 
Those whom she exasperated by her skepticism and her fear- 
lessness of speech and action, could only dwell upon her fri- 
volity and vanity, which were patent enough ; those whose 
tempers were not heated by rivalry or antagonism could dis- 
cern beneath all these fopperies a solidity of conviction, a 
sincerity of purpose, and a constancy of regard which could 
not fail to win appreciation of. though they could not always 
insure respect for their owner. Her life, were it thoroughly 
and truly told, would be one of the, most singular contribu 



34 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

tions to the history of gifted woman that the world has ever 
seen. She tried to tell it herself, in a fragmentary fashion, 
from time to time ; but the chapters of a strange story, how- 
ever amusing, were like their writer, so made up and rouged 
for effect as not to have taken a permanent place in the library 
of Female Biographies. It may be doubted whether such a 
woman will be ever seen again, since many of her peculiarities 
were clearly ascribed to circumstances of birth and education, 
which, in our days of rapid intercourse and diffused instruc- 
tion, can hardly be reproduced. The efforts of the young to 
acquire distinction must henceforth take other milder forms 
than they formerly wore, must be more speculative, less prac 
tical : on the other hand, perhaps,, the distinction when 
gained will never be so original and direct in its manifesta- 
tion, nor so racy in its expression, in any generation to come. 
' Lady Morgan, when touched too closely on the subject of 
her birth, was used to say, that she was born on the sea, be- 
twixt Ireland and England. I have heard her declare in one 
breath that she had created the national Irish novel, while in 
another, with sublime inconsistency, she would assert that 
Miss Edgeworth was a grown woman when she w r as yet a 
child. Her father, Mr. Macowen (the name for gentility's sake 
legitimately transformed into Owenson) was a comic actor of 
some repute in Ireland, some eighty or a hundred years ago. 
I have always believed that Sydney, his daughter, was des- 
tined for public exhibition, as she was taught to sing, to 
dance, to recite, and to play on the harp. But in none of 
these accomplishments was she sufficiently tutored to make 
limited natural gifts and personal attractions presentable to 
that hard taskmaster, the Public, with any chance of grsat 
favor. And the girl early discovered that she had within her- 
self better chances of asserting her individuality ; a shrewd 
observation of character, a keen wit, a fearless tongue, a reso- 
lute desire and curiosity for instruction in the ways of the 
vvDild. Anything but regularly pretty, she must at one time 
have been odd and piquant looking ; in this more attractive 
than many a dull compound of lilies and roses. 



LADY MORGAN. 35 

The resolution to get on rarely fails to be its own fulfillment. 
From the moment when she was received into the Marquis of 
Abercorn's family, partly as a governess, partly as a household 
musician, her success in the life she coveted and was fittest 
for, became only a matter of time. She danced, she played on 
the harp ; by her mother-wit she amused the inane persons oi 
quality whom, in later years, she delighted so mercilessly to 
satirize in her novels. But all this time she was reading 
eagerly in a desultory fashion ; getting some superficial knowl- 
edge of French and Italian ; if without any very steady pur- 
pose, with that instinct of future success which contains the 
fulfillment of its own prophecy. 

There is no need to dwell on Lady Morgan's first attempts 
at fiction ; " Ida of Athens," " The Novice of St. Dominick," 
" The Wild Irish Girl," the last probably the least imitative, 
the one which gave to its writer her own pet name of Glor- 
vina, after its heroine. All are as much forgotten as the tale 
" St Ifvyne," by which Shelley began his literary career. A 
collection of Irish Melodies, long preceding those of Bunting 
and Moore, was of better promise. One of these, " Kate 
Kearney," still lives in cheap editions of popular songs. 

It is as little my business to offer any judgment here on 
Lady Morgan's National Tales ; neither on her travels in 
France and Italy, her " Life of Salvata Rosa," and the most 
serious and best of her works, " Woman and her Master." 
Whatever be their real merit, it is past doubt that they estab- 
lished for her a brilliant reputation in France and Italy, and 
this expressed in forms which were not calculated to give bal- 
last to one of the most feather-brained, restless creatures whc 
ever glittered in the world of female authorship* After het 
first book on " France " was published she became the rage 
in Paris ; and I have been told, on good authority, that on one 
occasion, at some grand reception, she had a raised seat on 
ihe dais, only a little lower than that provided for the Duch- 
esse de Berri. It is true that she had at her side a staid, 
shrewd, cynical, skeptical companion in Sir Charles Morgan, 
who was weaiy of bearing a part in perpetual glitter, his mind 



36 HENRY FOTHERGILL CJ/ORLEY 

being bent on graver pursuits and speculations than ners. A 
strangely assorted pair they seemed to be, on a first glance ; 
but the one suited the other admirably. He did something 
towards reducing the exuberances of her vanity, and direct- 
ing her attention to courses of research. That he helped to 
write her books, as has been asserted, I do not believe. Her 
fame, for it amounted to fame, gave him access to circles of 
society which possibly he might never otherwise have entered. 
Both agreed in the expression of the most fearless skepticism 
(sometimes most painfully and needlessly expressed) ; both, 
like all the skeptics I have ever approached, were absurdly 
prejudiced and proof against new impressions. Neither of 
them, though both were literary and musical, could endure 
German literature or music, had got beyond the stale sarcasms 
of the " Anti-Jacobin," or could admit that there is a glory for 
such men as Weber, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, as well as for 
Cimarosa, Paiesiello, and Rossini. Prejudice such as theirs, 
professing liberalism, is a " sure card " to play. Party ani- 
mosity is far more amusing than justice, the latter being apt 
to bear the bad name of phlegmatic indifference. He, how- 
ever antipathetic his views might be to many persons, was, I 
have no doubt, thoroughly sincere in them ; she was as much 
so as a spoilt woman of genius, who delighted in being thought 
a woman of fashion, could be. 

Her familiar conversation was a series of brilliant, egotistic, 
shrewd, genial sallies. She could be caressing or impudent, 
as suited the moment, the purpose in hand, or the person she 
was addressing. At times the generous, hearty nature of the 
Irishwoman broke out, strangely alternating with her love of 
show and finery, and the bitter cynicism she showered on all 
practices and opinions which rebuked her own. I recollect 
her telling how, when she had been detained at some road- 
side country inn by an illness of her husband's, she sat on the 
bench beside the door, and treated a party of weary country 
'aborers, who were there resting, to bread, cheese, and beer, 
having obviously taken a rich and real enjoyment in their 
homely talk. And the next moment she would fly off to some 



LADY MORGAN. 37 

nonsense about dukes and duchesses, royal celebrities, at 
home and abroad, who had complimented her books, her con- 
versation, or her toilette ; for of her toilette, which was largely, 
during her life, made by her own hands, she was comically 
vain without concealment. I remember to have heard her de- 
scribe a party at a Mrs. Leo Hunter's (who received all man- 
ner of celebrities at what she called " her morning soirees" 
without the slightest power of appreciating anything but the 
celebrity), — " There," said she, " was Miss Jane Porter, look- 
ing like a shabby canoness ; there was Mrs. Somerville, in an 
astronomical cap. / dashed in, in my blue satin and point- 
lace, and showed them how an authoress should dress." 

I remember her, at another of those wondrous gatherings, 
where the crowd was great, and the drawing-room was 
crammed, breaking through a company of men, who had 
perched on an upper staircase, sitting down, and crying out 
aloud, " Here I am in the midst of my seraglio ! " In free- 
dom of speech she proved herself the countrywoman of those 
renowned wits, Lady Norbury and Lady Aldborough ; but, 
however free, she never shocked decorum, as they rather 
rejoiced in doing, to have their tales of double e?itendre carted 
over the town by diners-out, who found the second-hand 
indecency answer, as creating " a sensation." 

What a blessing is self-approbation ! In Lady Morgan's 
case I am satisfied it was sincere. She had no Statute of 
Limitations, and absolutely professed to have taught Taglioni 
to dance an Irish jig ! How far Taglioni profited by the les- 
son is a secret. 

Sometimes " her spirit and vivacity " (as the inimitable 
Lady Strange expressed it) carried Lady Morgan into strange 
lengths of freedom. I once met her in a literary menagerie, 
where, among other guests, figured a large lady, but a small 
authoress, Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson. She displayed 
rather protuberantly, below the waist of her black dress, a 
'awdry medal, half the size of a saucer, which had been 
awarded her for some prize poems by some provincial Delia 
Cruscan literary society, probably as tawdry and of as little 



38 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

worth as the rhymes it was given to reward.," My ! " said 

Lady Morgan, using an exclamation more irreverent than the 
reverse, " only look at Grace Darling ! " (the heroic daughter 
of the Northern Lighthouse-keeper). " Hush ! hush ! " said 
some one or other, " It is Mrs. Cornwell Baron Wilson." 
" Who ? Oh, Mrs. Barry Cornwall." I do not believe that 
she ever took the trouble to set her knowledge right regarding 
a lady living and moving in her own literary world. Yet who 
could be so sarcastic as herself on the mistakes of others ? 

I heard her ask, in all sincerity and simplicity, at a literary 
party, " Who was Jeremy Taylor ? " on the occasion of some 
reference to that distinguished divine. She may have, and 
I think had, some notion of the Taylors of Ongar ! But more 
absurd still was her introduction to the stately, grave, and 
accomplished Mrs. Sarah Austin, on which occasion she com- 
plimented her sister authoress on having written " Pride and 
Prejudice." 

Her resolution to assemble lions of all sorts and sexes was 
nothing short of dauntless. If a nobody happened to get into 
her circle, she made no scruple to pass him or her off as " the 
Cleopatra pears" were passed off by my relative. I think, could 
it have helped one of her parties, she would have fitted up a 
" Grace Darling." I know of one quiet and unobtrusive 
woman whom she had invited, and subsequently thought it 
necessary to ticket, who overheard how she was pointed out 
by the hostess " as a woman of extraordinary genius, who had 
written " — Well, the rest did not come easily, and so Lady 
Morgan fluttered off elsewhere, having mysteriously accounted 
for the presence of an anonymous guest. 

Among the guests whom she received in her latter years, 
when the death of Sir Charles Morgan left her at liberty to 
consult her humors without restraint, was the last person 
one could have expected to meet within precincts such as 
hers — Cardinal Wiseman. Not long before had she written 
her pamphlets on St. Peter's chair at Rome, aimed at the 
immaculate immutability of Papal succession ;* papers con- 
troversial, as strong, and caustic, and conclusive, as possibly 



LADY MORGAN. 39 

were ever written by a woman, in which she took great delight 
(for her avowed pleasure in her own works was wonderful). 
I believe his eminence and her eminence met on grounds ot 
the most cordial good fellowship. Such an encounter tells 
well for the honest sense and real feeling of the conflicting 
parties. Such encounters, I have often had reason to think, 
are nowhere so frequent as in England. 

She could be recklessly bitter in regard to other, especially 
other Irish, literary women. Her hatred to Lady Blessington 
had no bounds. In point and quality of authorship no sane 
person could for an instant think of comparing the two ; and 
the writer of " Florence Macarthy," and the " Life of Salvator 
Rosa," might well have afforded to pass by the more colorless 
works of the lady of Gore House. But there Gore House 
was ; and, in spite of the more austere and literary and 
political attractions of Holland House beyond it, Lady Bles- 
sington, by her grace, her sweetness, her admirable tact as 
the leader of society, and her no less admirable constancy, 
contrived, in spite of the most tremendous social disadvan- 
tages, to draw round her such a circle of men there, as I fancy 
will hardly be seen again. Lady Holland hated her badly, 
but, I think, let her alone. Lady Morgan could not let her 
alone. I have never heard venom, irony, and the implacable 
and caricatured statement of past mistakes heaped Pelion- 
wise on Ossa> even by woman on woman, so mercilessly, 
as by Lady Morgan in regard to Lady Blessington. And 
the former had the bad taste to assail the known friends 
of the latter with perpetual gibings and assaults. I have 
never been able (as other literary men can do) to partake of 
such miserable stories as these without a feeling of shame 
and discomfort ; as unable as, I hope, unwilling, to spoil 
society by wrangling, which must merge in honest animosity 
should unprovoked scandals be circulated. 

As life passed on, these follies in some measure fell away 
from, or were tempered, in Lady Morgan. She accepted what 
was becoming to advanced years with a grace almost amount- 
ing to dignity, hardly to have been expected from one who 



40 HENRY EOTHERGILL CJ/ORLEY. 

had so long defied time, and who found herself almost alone 
in the world. She became quieter, more considerate, very 
attentive to younger people, and to rising talent. She had 
been spoiled by having had to work her way under difficult 
circumstances into a position which she improved into a suc- 
cess. She had been flattered, and was more accessible to 
flattery than ninety-nine out of a hundred women are. She 
had the consciousness of having conquered a place for herself 
and her family, which was bright, and, to some degree, solid, 
in the best society of England and the Continent. Last and 
best of all, she had never to be appealed or apologized for, 
as a forlorn woman of genius under difficulties. The pension 
which was granted to her in her latter days, and justly, as 
one who had done her best to see after the redress of Irish 
abuses, had not, I have reason to believe, been solicited. 

Paul de Kock. 

I opened the door, and there stood a short, middle-aged 
man, with a very prepossessing countenance, but intelligent 
and melancholy rather than gay, very thin and longish black 
hair (he is, indeed, all but bald) — a fine forehead, and mild, 
but observant eyes. He was dressed in a black pelisse, faced 
and cuffed with plush. " Je suis Paul de Kock." I was thor- 
oughly glad to see him, and welcomed him my best in my bad 
French ; told him of the pleasure I had received from his 
writings, and we had some pleasant talk. His character seems 
to me true to the feeling, and simplicity, and shrewdness of his 
novels. I have yet to find whether it be true to those looser 
parts which (pity on them !) make so beautiful a series a sealed 
book to English readers in general. But, as he spoke with 
affection of a son ten years old (who plays the piano very well), 
I will believe him to be a good father at all events. He re- 
ferred modestly to his books, disclaimed the praise usually 
given to him as a writer merely humorous, and seemed pleased 
and touched by my assuring him (which I could honestly do) 
that I found something in them far beyond the emptiness of 
mirth, and instanced the " Frere Jacques," and the last scenes 



PAUL DE KOCK. 4 1 

of " Le Bon Enfant. " He asked me whether I had read them 
in translation. I said, No ; that I thought his humor untrans- 
latable ; and he seemed also much pleased. We spoke of 
Victor Hugo, whom we agreed in placing at the head of his 
school: of George Sand, whom we equally agreed in regard- 
ing as a hermaphrodite — a "genie 7nalade." .... He spoke 
of Count d'Orsay, till tears came into his eyes, and asked me 
whether he was [still] a Frenchman ! He spoke of his own 
manner of life pleasantly and well. He has a little cabin or 
cottage in the country, and there he goes pour se distraire _, 
is his own mason, his own joiner ; and, truly enough, said that 
a literary man has, beyond all his fellows, need of pursuits and 
occupations in which the mind can pleasantly unbend itself, 
and wander away from its fevers or its researches. He spoke 
strongly, but not with bitterness, of his critics. " They dis- 
liked him," he said, " because he belonged to no coterie, and 
would not do service for service." How I admired this ! And 
he said that they called him the author of cooks, porters, and 
scullions. " Well," he said, " I console myself, and could si- 
lence them if I liked, by saying that I am content, so long as 
these people don't begin to admire the monsters and prodigies 
of human nature." But he seemed to feel to the full the com- 
fort of knowing that no enemies or evil speakers can hinder 
that which is written to the heart of a people finding its an- 
swer there. He also spoke of the care and attention which 
his theatrical engagements required, as a reason for his not 
leaving Paris often, or to any great distance ; and we parted, 
I full of the most agreeable impressions. I have never seen a 
literary man, whom I should better wish to have written works 
I am fond of studying as models than M. Paul de Kock. 

[Some days afterwards Chorley called upon his new acquaint- 
ance.] I found him from home ; but Madame de Kock, from 
an inner room, invited me to go in, and I am not sorry to have 
accepted the invitation, though, I hope, from something better 
than curiosity to see a literary man's menage in Paris. First, 
the room was small and low, an entresol, I think, with a par 
quet. and no carpet ; a tea-table set out in the midst ; a cot 



42 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

tage-piano in one corner, and beside it a chair full of music J 
on the wall, opposite the fire-place, a portrait of M. de Kock's 
brother, whom Madame de Kock, if I remember right, spoke 
of as being connected with the Dutch Government ; and an 
inner cabinet, shelved with books, where, I suppose, "le sits to 
write. Madame de Kock was busy doing lace-work ; a very 
little woman, unpen deshabillee peut-etre ; and though with, 
perhaps, not much of the grand lady in her abord, full of true 
and honest pride in her husband, speaking of his simple tastes 
with great pleasure ; how fond he is of children, how much he 
hates money transactions with his publishers ; that she is al- 
ways obliged to be the man of business ; and how thoroughly 
he is fond of the quiet habits which have retained him a tenant 
of his modest menage (against her will) for nineteen years. She 
spoke of his unwillingness to quit Paris, even for a visit to his 
brother, whose portrait I saw ; and we were getting on very 
pleasantly, when he entered. The more I see, the better I like 
him. He talked very interestingly of Paris, of the life of the 
people on the Boulevards and beyond the barriers, which he 
recommended me to see, and of the pleasantness of his situa- 
tion of residence. I said, Yes, but that I was sure I never 
could work if I had a house on the Boulevards. " Well," said 
he, " I find physiognomies and figures, above all, costumes 
and groups in the streets, which are to me invaluable." He 
then charged me with a book for M. le Comte d'Orsay, and 
on my begging permission to read it on the way, said he 
would give me one for myself. It is "Gustave;" but why 
I note this is, as a trait, that the book bears as title-page 
an illustration, which I shall tear out ere I bind this ; and I 
am sure that neither he nor she (whether from greater honesty 
of mind — whether from the lower tone of national taste, as 
regards the gross and the sufferable) found anything strange, 
or wrong, or oojectionable. In England no author would have 
printed a book with such a picture — not even Byron. And 
yet, if I have any skill, this French novelist is twice the worth 
of Byron as a husband, a father, and a friend. It is odd tc 
make these distinctions. 



ALFRED DE VIGNY. — RACHEL. 43 

Alfred de Vigny. 
[It was in his third visit to Paris (paid in 1839) that Chorley 
made the acquaintance of Alfred de Vigny, whom he found 
- exceedingly pleasant, conversable, tender, and friendly — per- 
haps in too pale a tone for a man. " But what right have I, 
who have all my life been laughed at for like paleness, to ob- 
ject to this ? " Their conversation chiefly turned upon French 
drama ; one of de Vigny's remarks on which, Chorley notes as 
chiming in with his own preconceptions, viz., that the Oro- 
manes and Coriolanus of Corneille and Voltaire were words, 
not characters, as distinguished from the beings of Shakes- 
peare. On another occasion they talked of Moliere, whom de 
Vigny defended against the charge of want of enthusiasm and 
passion sometimes brought against him ; averring that the pas- 
sion of " Le Misanthrope " " was none the less passion for its 
being hooped, petticoated, and wigged."] 

Rachel. 

[In de Vigny's company Chorley went, for the first time, to 
see Rachel's performance in Voltaire's " Tancrede." Though 
very much struck with the remarkable force and emphasis of 
her declamation, and the propriety of her by-play, he thought 
her deficient in action, and her attitudes too constantly in or- 
donnance, as though the pose, having been once found effect- 
ive was repeated whenever invention fell short. Her acting 
on a subsequent occasion as Camille, in Corneille's " Horace," 
materially altered his estimate of her.] " It is a great triumph, 
and I am converted to her. In that wonderful scene with the 
soldier she was sublime ; the quivering play of her hands, 
every fibre listening and yielding and struggling with despair, 
as one who would deal with it herself, and let it have its way 
with others ; the sinking form, the horror-stricken counte- 
nance, were all in the best style of art ; to me finer and more 
affecting than her tremendous taunts to her brother, every 
word of which was a heart-string broken, and a drop of heart's 
blood shed against him, to pile on his head ' the mountain 
of her curse.' 



44 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

Mlle. Mars. 
[On another occasion he was present at a performance by the 
great actress Mars, then in the golden sunset of her powers 
and fame.] " The piece was ' Marie.' To be sure, in the epccL 
of girlhood her physical powers would not second her concep- 
tion ; but as the young wife of the financier, all dressed out 
in diamonds and flowers, and trying to smother an old passion 
under the semblance of gayety and worldliness, she was admir- 
able. One speech, the great speech wherein, on her old lover 
reproaching her with coldness, she turns and tells him of the 
agonies she has endured, the death that is in her heart, was 
more the language of anguish than anything I ever heard. 
Then what could exceed her acting in the last act, when, hav- 
ing thought all her trials were on the point of being rewarded, 
and looking fonvard to the future with a calm happiness, not 
so wholly meditative, as to show that all capacity for enjoy- 
ment is dead within her, she finds that her lover has trans- 
ferred his affections — to her daughter ! That charming, ex- 
quisite, girlish little Anais in the part of the daughter ! with a 
beauty, a freshness, and a bird-like gayety ! No : we have 
nothing like it in England ! " 

Louis Napoleon. 

He used to drive me frequently from Kensington to Hyde 
Park Corner, when we left Gore House, and would make 
shrewd remarks, and ask searching questions about subjects 
concerning which he desired to have information. Mr. Reeve 
— whose keen interest and close participation in matters con- 
cerning foreign politics is no secret — was then in constant 
relation with M. Guizot, the French ambassador in London. 
It was on the Saturday before the Prince's attempt was made 
at Boulogne, that my house-mate, before going out for the 
day, left with me a note to be taken by our joint servant to the 
French embassy in Manchester Square. The servant afore- 
said, Jonathan .... was a rough talkative man, not a little 
vain of the notoriety of some among our habitual guests. 



LOUIS NAPOLEON. 45 

While I was dressing for dinner, he began to tell me that 
during his evening rounds, he had seen in the Mall in St. 
James's Park two carriages duly appointed, and to them came 
alone from Carlton Gardens, where Prince Louis was then 
residing, himself, his faithful friend, Count Persigny, and 
one or two other gentlemen. Jonathan had stayed to gossip 
with some of the servants, to whom he was well known, and 
brought, on their authority, the news that Prince Louis " was 
going to France to kick up a row." Treating the matter (who 
would not have done so ?) as a piece of pure fiction, and averse 
to anything like scandal proceeding from our house, especially 
in the case of one so delicately circumstanced as Prince Louis, 
I spoke angrily to the man, and charged him on no account to 
repeat the absurd tale, least of all at the French embassy, to 
which he was going that same evening with a note from Reeve. 
This he promised to do, and kept his promise. My dinner 
that day was at Gore House, tete-d-tete with Lady Blessing- 
ton. When we were alone at dessert, our talk ran on English 
servants, and the liberties too frequently taken by them with 
the names of their masters and their masters' friends. I men- 
tioned what had passed at home, as an instance. She treated 
the tale as I had done. " Why," she said, " I drove down to 
Carlton Gardens only yesterday to leave a parcel there, which 
Prince Louis had undertaken to send for me to Paris by 
Prince Baiocchi ; he came out and spoke to me." We passed 
on to something else. When I went home, I told the thing to 
Reeve, as a good story. After I had left Gore House, Lady 
Blessington told the same to Count d'Orsay, who got home 
late, also as an absurdity. Reeve went, according to his note, 
to breakfast with M. Guizot on the Sunday morning, and, of 
course, did not trouble the grave man in office with such a 
piece of nonsense. Monday passed, and Tuesday ; on Wed- 
nesday afternoon late, some one rode up to the carriage of 
Lady Blessington, who was driving in the park, open-mouthed 
with the news of the attempt at Boulogne, and the arrest of 
:he pretender to the French throne. " Good God ! to be 
*ure," she cried in her eager way, " know all about it ; Chor- 
Ley told me on Saturday ! " 



46 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEV. 

I have often speculated on the "ifs" and "ands" \Uiich 
might have happened, had we all four not disregarded the 
affair as a preposterous tale, and had M. Guizot been apprised 
on the Sunday morning. There have been days in which we 
might have been all accused, and with a fair show of circum- 
stantial evidence, of complicity in the treason. 

During the time when Prince Louis was imprisoned in 
Ham, by the failure of his attempt, covered with ridicule, I 
was in occasional communication with him, with the view of 
beguiling his hours of captivity, and heard of him constantly 
— from him more than once. When his " Idees Napoleon- 
<ennes," written in his dungeon, were to be published by Col- 
burn, I was invited, with his concurrence, to translate the 
book into English ; and a set of proofs, corrected by himself, 
was sent me. I did not accept the' task, mainly because I 
have never put my hand to a task of the kind, without some 
special knowledge of that which I professed to handle. For 
the same reason, whatever have been my prejudices or predi- 
lections, on yet stronger grounds, I would never take service 
as a political journalist ; such subjects are too grave ones to 
be undertaken merely as the means of gaining a livelihood. 
Whether right or wrong, I kept the proofs of the book by me 
for a long time, and was very near being brought into trouble 
by them, as under. 

I was going into France, before the Prince escaped from 
Ham, and while making the hasty provisions for my journey, 
totally overlooked the fact that my writing-book contained 
some of the sheets of this perilous production, annotated by 
the writer. Fortunately, the douaiiier at Calais knew my face, 
and did not open my bundle of travelling wares. I destroyed 
the proofs, not conceiving that one day they might become a 
literary curiosity, no matter what was the intrinsic poorness 
of the work. 

When Prince Louis made his escape from Ham, I was one 
of the first persons whom he called on ; and it seems as if it 
were but yesterday that he told me, from one of my easy- 
chairs, the particulars of the manner of his deliverance, too 



THE MISSES BERRY.— SOUTHEY. 47 

well known to the world for the tale to be told again here. 
To the last days of his residence in England, he continued to 
show a recollection of the very trifling services I could render 
him, such as has not been the rule with others on an equality 
with myself, to whom chance has enabled me to give impor- 
tant assistance at critical junctures of their lives. 

The Misses Berry. 

Horace Walpole's Miss Berrys. What luck to have met 
with them ! They are more like one's notion of ancient 
Frenchwomen than anything I have ever seen ; rouged, with 
the remains of some beauty, managing large fans like the 
Flirtillas, etc., etc., of Ranelagh, and besetting Macready about 
the womanly proprieties of the character of Pauline in the 
" Lady of Lyons," till one thought of the " Critique de PEcole 
des Femmes." It is not often that I have heard anything so 
brilliant and amusing. 

When that most charming of modern antique books, Lan- 
dor's " Pericles and Aspasia," appeared, subsequently to his 
" Gebir," his " Imaginary Conversations," and even (I think) 
his " Examination of Shakspeare," on his name being passed 
round in their circle by some enterprising guest, Miss Berry 
said, — " Mr. Landor ? What has he written ? " 

Southey. 

I never met any literary man who so thoroughly answered 
my expectations as Southey. His face is at once shrewd, 
thoughtful, and quick, if not irritable, in its expression ; a 
singular deficiency of space in its lower portion, but no de- 
ficiency of feature or expression ; his manner cold, but still ; 
in conversation, bland and gentle, and not nearly so dogmatic 
as his writings would lead one to imagine. Talking, and talk- 
ing well, a good deal about America. 

He was speaking of Miss Martineau patiently, but without 
respect, describing her as "talking more glibly than any 
woman he had ever seen, and with such a notion of her own 
infallibility." I was more agreeably impressed by Southey 
than I have, for a long time, been bv any stranger. 



48 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHOREE Y 

Mr. and Mrs. Haynes Bayly. 
Till I saw them, I never understood the full force of the re- 
proach of Bath fashion ; tawdry, airy, sentimental, vulgar; 
he with a pen-and-red-ink complexion, and a hyacinthine 
Romeo wig, dancing, and behaving prettily to all the little 
girls in the room ; she in an old French dress, rouged, fade, 
haggard : what a pair of shabby old butterflies ! 

Miss Sedgwick. 

She is decidedly the pleasantest American woman I have 
ever seen, with more of a turn for humor, and less American 
sectarianism. The twang, to be sure, there is in plenty ; and 
the toilette is the dowdiness (not the finery) of the backwoods ; 
but then she is lively, kind, heart-warm ; and I feel somehow 
or other, almost on friendly terms with her, though I never 
spoke more than twenty consecutive words to her. 

Miss Sedgwick 1 has been returning the compliment of all 
English journalists, by putting us all round on paper to a de- 
gree which is too bad. She asked, it see^ns, poor dear Miss 
Mitford's servants what wages they received, and the like ; 
and, I hear, has written that which is likely most sadly to 
compromise some of the Italian refugees in America, who 
were negotiating with the Austrian Government for a restora- 
tion to their families. I liked her so well in private, as an 
honest-minded, simple-mannered, cultivated woman, that I am 
really more vexed than there is any occasion for. I fear the 
next cage of Transatlantic birds will not run much chance of 
being very liberally dinnered and soireed here ; only every 
thing passes off like a nine-days' wonder ! 

Mrs. Browning. 

Mrs. Browning and her writings claim affectionate com- 
memoration on the part of those who knew her personally, 
and consider the high place she must ever hold among the 
recognized poetesses of this country. In the first class only 

1 In a volume of " Letters.'* 



MRS. BROWNING. 49 

hve can be named — Joanna Baillie and Miss Mitford, in right 
of their tragedies (the former, too, one of Great Britain's most 
exquisite lyrists) ; Mrs. Hemans, the musical, high-hearted, 
and impassioned ; and herself, less complete in execution, it 
may be, than the three women of genius already named, but 
bolder in imagination and deeper in learning, with a wider 
(and wilder) flow of inspiration than any of those with whom 
she is here classed. She has a place of her own — rare, 
noble, daring, and pure beyond reproach — in the Golden 
Book of gifted women. There has been only one since, 
Adelaide Anne Procter, less ambitious, perhaps, than her 
predecessors, but, as a lyrist, more complete, more delicate, 
not less original therefore, than any among them, whose 
verses have a beauty and a finish that owe nothing to any 
model. 

It must be at least thirty years ago that I was startled by a 
new pleasure — a published ballad, signed, I think, with only 
initials — in "The New Monthly Magazine " — " The Ro- 
maunt of Margret." I got it by heart : if I copied it once, 
I copied it ten times, and must have made myself a nuisance, 
as immature enthusiasts are apt to do, by talking of it, in 
season and out of season, as an appearance of a strange, 
seizing, original genius. I was doubted and put aside accord- 
ingly, in obedience to English law and usage, which (as it 
were) make us set our teeth and lean our backs against the 
door whenever the same is to be opened to a real novelty. 
The chance, however, that brought me to the knowledge of 
that munificent man and indulgent friend, John Kenyon, Miss 
Barrett's relative, brought me also the privilege of writing to 
one whom I so sincerely admired, and of being on the list of 
those to whom she was willing to write. 

In those days, no other intercourse was possible ; for she 
was an invalid — thought to be a hopeless one — as such, not 
to be intruded on (were the candidates as persevering, gifted, 
and charming as the American " interviewers "), save by a 
very few old friends. 

Her letters ought to be published. In power, versatility* 
4 



50 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

liveliness, and finesse; in perfect originality of glance, and 
vigor of grasp at every topic of the hour ; in their enthusi- 
astic preferences, prejudices, and inconsistencies, I have 
never met with any, written by men or by women, more 
brilliant, spontaneous, and characteristic. This was her form 
of conversation. I have never done a duty more against the 
grain than in restoring those addressed to me to their rightful 
possessor — the true poet whom she married, after an intimacy 
suspected by none save a very few, under circumstances of 
no ordinary romance, and in marrying whom she secured for 
the residue of her life an emancipation from prison and an 
amount of happiness delightful to think of, as falling to the 
lot of one who, from a darkened chamber, had still exercised 
such a power of delighting others. It was more like a fairy 
tale than anything in real life I have ever known, to read, 
one morning, in the papers, of her marriage with the author 
of ." Paracelsus," and to learn, in the course of the day, that 
not only was she married, but that she was absolutely on her 
way to Italy. The energy and resolution implied were amaz- 
ing on the part of one who had long, as her own poems tell 
us, resigned herself to lie down and die. I cannot recollect 
when I have been more moved and excited by any surprise, 
beyond the circle of my immediate hopes and fears. 

Every letter of hers from Florence told me of one prospect 
after another brightening, of one hope after another fulfilled — 
told with a piquant originality and prejudice not to be over- 
stated nor under-praised. 

I never met Mrs. Browning face to face till after her. return 
to England. The time is too recent for me to tell how we 
met — as correspondents who had become friends. And her 
indulgent friendship never failed me to the last, in spite of 
serious differences of opinion concerning a matter which she 
took terribly to heart — the strange, weird question of mesmer- 
ism, including clairvoyance. To the marvels of these two 
phenomena (admitting both as incomplete discoveries) she lent 
an ear as credulous as her trust was sincere and her heart 
high-minded. But with women far more experienced in falsity 



MRS. BROWNING. 5 I 

than one so noble and one who had been so secluded from the 
world as herself, after they have once crossed the threshold, 
there is seldom chance of after-retreat. Only, they become 
bewildered by their tenacious notions of loyalty. It is over 
these very best and most generous of their sex that impostors 
have the most power. They are no matches, as men are, for 
those miserable creatures who creep about with insinuating 
manners, and would pass off legerdemain, the tricks of cup 
and ball, for real, portentous discoveries. 

I have never seen one more nobly simple, more entirely 
guiltless of the feminine propensity of talking for effect, more 
earnest in assertion, more gentle yet pertinacious in difference, 
than she was. Like all whose early nurture has chiefly been 
from books, she had a child's curiosity regarding the life 
beyond her books, co-existing with opinions accepted as cer- 
tainties concerning things of which (even with the intuition of 
genius) she could know little. She was at once forbearing 
and dogmatic, willing to accept differences, resolute to admit 
no argument ; without any more practical knowledge of so- 
cial life than a nun might have, when, after long years, she 
emerged from her cloister and her shroud. How she used her 
experiences as a great poetess, is to be felt and is evidenced 
in her " Aurora Leigh," after every allowance has been made 
for an extreme fearlessness in certain passages of the story 
and forms of expression, and that want of finish in executicn 
with which almost all her efforts are chargeable. 

The success of " Aurora Leigh " (with all its drawbacks) 
was immediate, wide, and, I conceive, is one likely to last. 
The noble and impassioned passages which printed them- 
selves on memory as I hurried through the tale, carried along 
by its deep interest, the brilliancy of allusion, the felicity of 
description, separate it from any effort of the kind which I 
could name. TKose who care for comparison may come to 
something like a right appreciation of this poem, on compar- 
ing it with efforts in the same form by M. de Lamartine, or an 
English novel in verse which followed it, by the accomplished 
but imitative author of " Lucille." In Mrs. Browning's ballad 



52 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

poems, the same preeminence in fantasy may be ascribed to 
her. I refer to the " Rhyme of the Duchess May," " The 
Brown Rosarie," " The Romaunt of the Page," " Lady Geral- 
iine's Courtship," and " Bertha in the Lane." It is idle to 
talk of halting tones and occasional platitudes (what fertile 
writer has been exempt from them ?), when so much vigor 
and variety are to be counted on the other side of the ques- 
tion. Some of Mrs. Browning's minor lyrics can hardly be 
exceeded in beauty and tenderness. The verse from one en- 
titled " Sleeping and Watching," which begins, 

11 And God knows, who sees us twain," 

has a pathos which will speak to every one who has had ex- 
perience in the darkened chambers of life. 

Sir William Moles worth. 

Among my betters, with whom it has been always my de- 
sire and my good fortune to live, I have known no man, as re- 
gards heart, head, and capacity, superior to Sir William Moles- 
worth. Our acquaintance was strangely made : but it ripened 
into what I have a right to call a friendship, which lasted to 
the end of his life. * That he trusted me I have good reason to 
know ; and howsoever wide apart our pursuits were (one 
alone excepted — love of flowers and trees), I was never by 
him made to feel the inferiority of my flimsy knowledge to his 
massive command of the greatest subjects which can engage 
a serious ma* « attention. I was, from first to last, at ease 
when I was with him, and have not to remember a single de- 
preciating word or doubtful look on his part. 

Sir William Molesworth was in no respect brilliant, but 
earnest ; perfect in mastery over every subject he took in 
hand, open to any testimony which interfered with his own 
views ; a man of a high and truthful nature, under the cover 
of whose deeds and strong opinions, call them prejudices, the 
least gifted of those whom he met and harbored must have 
felt safe. He was just rather than habitually generous ; but 
when he chose to be generous, he was munihcent, and without 



SIX WILLIAM MOLESWORTH. 53 

regard to his good deeds being blazoned. He was well aware 
ofiiis own value, as every sincere man must be who has any 
value at all ; but in private life, never was any great man less 
self-asserting. He seemed to love to rest in it by way of en- 
joyment, not to show shows or to make speeches, on the 
strength of his position as a man of letters or a statesman. 

It is curious to recall how, as a young leader in the Radical 
party, wealthy to boot, and with an honorable family name and 
estate, Sir William Molesworth was pursued by squadrons of 
strong-minded women, or terrible mothers, " shallow-hearted " 
(as Tennyson sings), having daughters to whom the name, and 
the fame, and the position of his wife would have been a pro- 
motion little short of heavenly advancement on earth. It is 
excellent to recollect how quietly he put aside everything like 
control or intrigue or suggestion ; and, by choosing for him- 
self, secured as complete a happiness for two married people 
as the world has ever seen. This could not have been more 
emphatically attested than by his testamentary dispositions. 

A deliberation and persistence, not to say heaviness of na- 
ture, were among his remarkable characteristics, and had no 
small share in his success. Whatever he attempted to do he 
did thoroughly ; let the thing be ever so great or ever so 
small, the shaping of a course of political service, the gather- 
ing together testimony as regarded Colonial affairs, in which 
field of action he has never been replaced, the fulfillment of a 
task no less dry than the editing of the philosophical works of 
Hobbes of Malmesbury, which called down on him that ran- 
corous abuse of his opinions, then too fiercely used against all 
those suspected of Liberal heresies by the high Tory party — 
all that he did was thoroughly done. This peculiar character- 
istic was carried out to the most trifling occupation. I have 
seen him for a couple of hours absorbed in the solving of a 
chess problem ; or in disentangling a skein of silk, while his 
mind was steadily pursuing some train of thought and specu- 
lation. But he never used his accuracy as an engine of op- 
pression, as meaner men are too apt to do. When, at last, his 
worth and his weight could be no longer overlooked, and he 



54 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

entered the Ministry as responsible for the " Woods and For- 
ests," the question of a new National Gallery was on the car- 
pet. He was resolute not to move in it till he was in posses- 
sion of the fullest information as to the merits and demerits of 
foreign picture-galleries. How carefully he received, and how 
patiently he sifted this, I am in case to record. He gathered 
specifications, working plans, and estimates of what had been 
the cost, of what was the nature, of what the success, of the 
great European establishments of the kind, and was pre- 
paring to present the result of his comparisons to the nation 
in a tangible form, when changes occurred in our admin- 
istration, and he was promoted to the Secretaryship of the 
Colonies. According to certain established principles of Eng- 
lish policy and private judgment, which imply English destruc- 
tive waste at the expense of public money, his successor, as 
small as he was a great man, swept away all the fruits of his 
care and provision into some unseen official closet, where, 
probably, they may be mouldering at this day, and began anew 
a series of inquiries and perquisitions, just as if the subject 
was still a virgin subject. Corollary. — We have no National 
Gallery, save a building originally penurious and inefficiently 
patched up, even to this present day. 

From all abominable waste like this, the experience and 
counsel of such men as Sir William Molesworth — were there 
many such — might have protected this country. But the 
name of such is not legion. When he came to be promoted, 
as was inevitable, to his legitimate sphere of action, as Colo- 
nial Secretary, the frame, by nature not a healthy one, was 
worn out. He had a very few days of consciousness of re- 
ward, due to a power and probity as priceless as they are un- 
common, and died peacefully, with perfect consciousness that 
he was dying. 

His sense of humor was not keen, but no man delighted in 
such quaint stories and conundrums as he seized and relished 
more thoroughly than himself. As has been often the case, 
he took a positive pleasure in hearing the same tale or jest 
told over and over again, let him know it ever so well by 



SIX WILLIAM MOLESWORTH. 55 

heart. He would begin it wrong, as children do, with the in- 
tention of hearing it corrected. He rarely produced or pa- 
raded the results of his grave thought and deep reading ; but 
when he did speak, he was apt to close the question in debate. 

It was curious to observe how one so mathematical, and so 
sparingly endowed with the poetic faculty of appreciation, had 
so strong a tendency to occupy himself with those recondite and 
mysterious subjects regarding which no clear conclusion can 
be arrived at. He had a theory of dreams of his own, which, 
I think, he put forward in the " Westminster Review " during 
his brief proprietorship of that periodical. He was patient 
and clear in investigating the pretensions of mesmerism, sepa- 
rating the phenomena of cataleptic sleep from those of pre- 
tended clairvoyance, with that resolution to sift evidence, and to 
discriminate betwixt truth and falsity, which the more mercurial 
and imaginative seldom retain. He was a willing and dili- 
gent reader of foreign novels. Without an atom of taste for 
music, or care about the drama above melodrama, he endured 
both, in indulgence to other persons, but not very willingly. 
It is comical to recall how, after the first performance of " Le 
Prophete," he never again entered his own opera box ; driven 
thence, he said (and, I suspect, not averse to the excuse), by 
the psalmody of the Three Anabaptists ! 

But his real enjoyments, as apart from the pleasurable 
cares of ambition, were at home in Cornwall, in the place 
which he had decorated and beautified with the hand of a 
master. 1 The lovely Italian garden before his house, the 
plantations so choicely adjusted, the long descending avenue, 
flanked by a collection of rare firs and evergreens only equaled 
by those of the Pinetum at Dropmore ; the hot-houses, with 
their strange, weird-looking orchidaceous plants, were a per- 
oetual source of pleasure to him — the pleasure belonging to 
lich and accurate knowledge. He knew every tree he had set ; 
the quickness of its growth and its chances of health or disease 
were duly noted by him in his garden diary ; and his delib- 
erate afternoon walks through his beautiful grounds were 

1 Pencarrow. 



56 HENRY F0THERG1LL CHORLEY. 

among his pleasantest solitary hours of the day — a whole 
some relief from the coil and cumber of state measures and 
treaties, the verbiage of blue-books to be fathomed, and the 
strong excitements of political ambition. I have often and 
again thus walked with him, and heard him talk — a pleasure 
and a privilege not to be forgotten. His indulgence and re- 
gard for me are among the most precious of my recollections. 
I must change more than I hope I ever shall before I cease to 
be aware of their distinction and their value. 

Thomas Campbell. 

Campbell was a little man, with a shrewd eye, and a sort of 
pedagoguish, parboiled voice ; plenty to say for himself, espe - 
daily about other people, and not restrained from saying 
whatever seemed good to him by any caution ; speaking with 
a violent antipathy of Theodore Hook (by the way, the neiv 
editor of the " New Monthly Magazine "), and yet not more vio- 
lently than the latter deserves ; dressing up his good stories, 
and looking about him while he did them, with the unmistak- 
able air of a diner-out, which is so amusing — more amusing, 
by the way, than agreeable. To myself he was very com- 
plaisant. 

It would be hard to name an English poet of greater refine- 
ment and sweetness, alternating with outbreaks of the most 
manly vigor and high heroic spirit, than Thomas Campbell. 
It would be equally hard to name an author of any country 
whose personality was more entirely at variance with his 
poetry than his — at least, during the second half of his life. 
A man, be his habits what they may, does not deteriorate uni- 
formly and steadily from every promise and sign of grace 
which he may have shown in earlier years, without showing, 
from time to time, some flashes of the olden brightness, let 
them be ever so few and far between. What I saw and knew 
of Campbell, at least, made it very hard to credit the possibil- 
ity of there having been days much better essentially. If such 
had been the case, his latter state was not one so much of en- 
feeblement as of metamorphosis — of what was pure having 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 57 

become gross — of what was intellectual and appreciative los- 
ing itself in a prosy and commonplace stupidity. 

I first heard of him when he was delivering his lectures on 
Poetry at Liverpool, more than forty years ago. The extent 
to which these were overrated, in consequence of the beauty, 
power, and finish of the poet's poetry, only revealed itself 
when the poet's prose came to be published. They are as 
completely forgotten to-day as if they had never been — the 
fate, perhaps, of all lectures ; but Campbell was prodigiously 
lionized in circles which, I have always felt, were too prone to 
lionize. How all ease, grace, and nature of intercourse are 
destroyed by the extravagance of social idolatry ; how talk for 
effect must be the consequence of 

"Wonder with a fooMsh face of praise,"" 

have been truths as clear as day to me, ever since I was in a 
case to observe and compare. Then, I could but stare, as a 
very young boy, and remark how the best, and most refined, 
and most beautiful of men and women laid themselves at the 
lecturers feet. Of himself, at that time, I recollect nothing ; 
but he must have had something, in show, at least, better to 
offer in return than the gifts and graces displayed by him 
later in London — the paltry conversation, when it was not 
coarsened by convivial excesses to a point which would not 
to-day be endured, were the poet thrice as godlike as he was. 
In fact, as years went on, Campbell slipped out of society as 
steadily as though he had been a false prophet and not the 
author of " The Pleasures of Hope," lt Hohenlinden," " The 
Battle of the Baltic," " Ye Mariners of England," " The Exile 
of Erin," " O'Conner's Child," and " The Last Man " — poems 
which will endure so long as a single lover of imperishable 
thought, feeling, and fancy, enshrined in most musical verse, 
shall be left in England. Their spell is strong now, even in 
this age of jargon, this time when " whitings' eyes " by so 
many are permitted to pass as " pearls." 

He was my neighbor in Victoria Square. Pimlico, during the 
last years passed by him in England, and was willing to be- 
stow much of his leisure on a poetaster so much younger a 



58 HENRY FOTHEKGILL CHORLEY. 

man as I was. I can hardly describe how painful it was to be 
sought by one whose notice should have been such an honor, 
but whom it was hardly possible for youthful fastidiousness 
and want of charity to endure as a companion. It was woeful, 
weary work, unredeemed, so far as I recollect, by one passing 
flash of the spirit which had shone with such brilliancy and 
beauty in the verse ; and great was the relief when he with- 
drew from London, — to die, in all but utter neglect, at Bou- 
logne. 

One friend, however, Campbell retained, who believed in 
and ministered to him till the end came — the friend, as I 
have grateful reason to commemorate, of many more obscure 
literary men — Dr. Beattie, himself an author of modest pre- 
tensions, and who, in the fullness of sincere admiration, wrote 
the only English biography of the poet which has appeared. 
It must not be forgotten, when writing about Campbell, that 
the poet of " The Pleasures of Hope," like the poet of " The 
Pleasures of Memory," was from first to last fond of children. 
So it should be with those alike who look forward or look 
back. 

Professor Bendemann. 

Bendemann is reputed to be the first of German modern ar- 
tists. He has a thin face, of a sweet and melancholy expres- 
sion, large, intense thoughtful eyes, of a painter's keenness 
and poetry — a countenance not wholly unlike Weber's in its 
pattern, with mild, gentlemanly manners. I found him in his 
atelier at the great hall of the palace, which he has been em- 
ployed to decorate with frescoes. He was at work on a very 
high scaffolding, without a cravat, in a blue blouse, and with a 
long pipe. I had an exceedingly pleasant half hour of con- 
versation with him, though I could not, I fear, come far enough 
upon his own ground to be acceptable to him ; and I will never 
talk more than I understand There is a sort of frieze in com- 
partments running round the room, which he is filling with a 
series of paintings imaging the progress of human life, begin- 
ning with the Paradise of Nature, when there was no death, 
and ending with the Paradise of Redemption, when life eter- 



KAULBACH. 59 

nal shall be restored, and between the two, embracing the 
ages of man from the cradle to the grave. Some of these were 
not complete, but those which were, were very beautiful — a 
dance of children, for instance, and a group representing a 
wedding, all youth and joy, and motion and hope. Besides 
this, he showed me two very noble cartoons of single figures 
of sages, lawgivers, etc., with which he is going to surround 
the hall. Zoroaster and Solomon were the subjects. The one, 
with the Magian censer in his hand, was very grand and Chal- 
daic and imposing, and, if forcibly wrought out, will make the 
breath stop of those who look at it. But dare I say that it is 
this very want of forcible working-out which makes the long 
step between the modern Germans and the great ancients 
whom they so nobly aspire to approach ? They make " shad- 
ows of beauty, shadows of power ; " the others called up 
real kings and apostles, and the real Divinity who needs but 
touch the hills to make them smoke ! I know next to nothing 
of the works of modern German painters ; but the few I have 
seen appear to me, with all their beauty of drawing and senti- 
ment, to want body, I like Bendemann very much. He was 
very patient with my platitudes ; and I liked him, who bears 
the reputation of being among the first painters, telling me 
that Kaulbach, of Munich, was their first man, and speaking 
of his works with such enthusiasm. 

Kaulbach. 

He is a very thin man, with a little long, glossy, black hair 
smoothed over his forehead, with deep, tender, shining, hu- 
morous eyes. In his manner a mixture of simplicity, friendli- 
ness, fun, and enthusiasm. He was painting a man handsomer 
than himself, but not so much of a genius. Several magnifi- 
cent full-length portraits were about ; one of a falconer. The 
one on which he was occupied was the chief of a company of 
Lanz-knechts. Their originals were young artists who, with 
their wives, had, last winter, appeared to the number of two 
hundred in a pageant at the theatre, on the return of Prince 
Max ; and the king had commanded three of their portraits 



6o HENR Y FO THERGILL CHORLE Y 

for Schleissheim. " After all," said Kaulbach, " it was an 
honor lo paint such fine fellows." One that was finished 
struck me more than any modern portrait I have ever seen ; 
the full-length of a knight, with sanguine complexion and red 
hair ; a metal bonnet on the head, a cuirass, a scarlet dress 
slashed with white, and a gorgeous furred mantle. When 
Kaulbach drew up the blind, and let in the light upon it, it 
seemed to float out of the canvas with its force and brilliancy. 
We saw some illustrations to " Faust," which I did not like. 
They were clever, but grim and ungraceful compared with 
those by Retszch — and yet the one has no honor here ! We 
saw, too, three admirable designs for a new edition of " Rein- 
ecke der Fuchs." But the most remarkable picture of all was 
an enormous cartoon of the Destruction of Jerusalem. Above 
are the three prophets watching the angels, who are sounding 
the trumpets and pouring out the vials of wrath at their feet 
— noble winged figures of a superb Apocalyptic sublimity. 
In the centre, to the left, the Jews, in all the agonies of ter- 
ror, distress, famine, dissension, murder, and blasphemy ; the 
degrees being indicated by a mother entreated of her chil- 
dren, the high-priest about to slay himself, and the Wandering 
Jew spurred on his way by fiends above his head — the last 
free Israelite who will issue from that scene. To the extreme 
left, Titus riding calmly into the city with an air of solemn as- 
tonishment at the frenzy around him, and the portents which 
attend his conquest. The most magnificent subject of all 
time, done (may we not say it ?) full justice to. All the effete 
and pedantic efforts which good King Louis has called forth 
are assuredly well bestowed, if they have formed and fostered 
a school of Art of which such a nobfe work was the sole 
result. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

[For the creative genius of Hawthorne, Chorley had always 
entertained the highest admiration, and was proud, as he bad 
a right to be, of having been the first English critic who 
drew attention to its manifestation in the " Twice-Told 
Tales." The novelist's subsequent works had received his 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 6 1 

lavish praise, both in public and private ; especially the 
" Scarlet Letter, 1 ' which he commended to a friend at 
Liverpool as " the most powerful and most painful story of 
modern times — the only tale in its argument in which the 
-frurity overtops the passion. It has struck me prodigiously ; 
and I think will end in taking a very remarkable place among 
stories of its quality." This impression of Hawthorne's power 
was confirmed by the personal intercourse with him elsewhere 
referred to, the terms of which were extremely cordial. Chor- 
ley was therefore disappointed, when a new work by Haw- 
thorne was published soon after their acquaintance had been 
established, to find himself unable to render it as high a 
tribute as he had rendered to its predecessors. The short- 
comings of " Transformation " were accordingly criticised in 
the "Athenaeum" of March 3d, i860, with some keenness; 
ample praise being accorded to its subtlety and beauty, but a 
marked stress laid upon the poverty of invention which the 
author had shown in repeating the types of his former fictions : 
Hilda, for example, being "own cousin" to Phoebe in the 
" House of the Seven Gables." Other faults, too, were found, 
whether justly or unjustly matters little, since it was well 
worth being mistaken to be set right so charmingly. It will 
be understood that the following letters were written on the 
same sheet ; Mrs. Hawthorne occupying all but the last leaf, 
which was reserved for her husband.] 

" My dear Mr. Chorley, 

" Why do you run with your fine lance directly into the face 
of Hilda ? You were so fierce and wrathful at being shut out 
from the mysteries (for which we are all disappointed), that 
you struck in your spurs and plunged with your visor down. 
For indeed and in truth Hilda is not Phoebe, no more than a 
wild rose is a calla lily. They are alike only in purity and 
innocence ; and I am sure you will see this whenever you read 
the romance a second time. I am very much grieved that 
Mr. Chorley should seem not to be nicely discriminating ; for 
what are we to do in that case ? The artistic, pensive, re- 



62 HENRY FOTHERGILL ClfORLEY. 

served, contemplative, delicately appreciative Hilda can in no 
wise be related to the enchanting little housewife, whose 
energy, radiance, and eglantine sweetness fill her daily homely 
duties with joy, animation, and fragrance. Tell me, then, is 
it not so ? I utterly protest against being supposed partial 
because I am Mrs. Hawthorne. But it is so very naughty of 
you to demolish this new growth in such a hurry, that I can- 
not help a disclaimer ; and I am so sure of your friendliness 
and largeness, that I am not in the least afraid. You took all 
the fright out of me by that exquisite, gem-like, aesthetic 
dinner and tea that you gave us at the fairiest of houses last 
summer. It was a prettier and more mignonne thing than I 
thought could happen in London ; so safe, and so quiet, and 
so very satisfactory, with the light of thought playing all 
about. I have a good deal of fight left in me still about 
Kenyon, and the ' of course ' union of Kenyon and Hilda ; but 
I will not say more, except that Mr. Hawthorne had no idea 
that they were destined for each other. Mr. Hawthorne is 
driven by his Muse, but does not drive her ; and I have 
known him to be in inextricable doubt in the midst of a book 
or sketch as to its probable issue, waiting upon the Muse for 
the rounding in of the sphere which every work of true art is. 
I am surprised to find that Mr. Hawthorne was so absorbed 
in Italy that he had no idea that the story, as such, was inter- . 
esting ! and, therefore, is somewhat absolved from having 
ruthlessly ' excited our interest to voracity.' 

" We are much troubled that you have been suffering this 
winter. We also have had a great deal of illness, and I am 
only just lifting up my head after seven weeks of serious 
struggle with acute bronchitis. I dare say you are laughing 
(gently) at my explosion of small muskets. But I feel more 
comfortable now I have discharged a little of my opposition. 

" With sincere regard, I am, dear Mr. Chorley, yours, 

" Sophia Hawthorne. 

u Leamington, March 5th, i860. 
<4 ji Bath Street." 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 6 3 

" Dear Mr. Chorley, — 

" You see how fortunate I am in having a critic close at 
hand, whose favorable verdict consoles me for any lack of ap- 
preciation in other quarters. Really, I think you were wrong 
in assaulting the individuality of my poor Hilda. If her por- 
trait bears any resemblance to that of Phoebe, it must be the 
fault of my mannerism as a painter. But I thank you for the 
kind spirit of your notice ; and if you had found ten times as 
much fault, you are amply entitled to do so, by the quantity of 
generous praise heretofore bestowed. 

" Sincerely yours, 

" Nath. Hawthorne. 

"21 Bath Street, Leamington." 

March, 1870. — At the instant of closing this chapter oi 
recollections I read of the death of the widow of the greatest 
and choicest author of fiction whom America has till now pro- 
duced, Nathaniel Hawthorne. This sets me free to write 
concerning that singular original man what I know and have 
seen of him in England. 

From the first appearance, in an American magazine, of 
'those delicious and individual stories, subsequently collected 
and given forth as " Twice Told Tales," it was evident that 
something as exquisite as it was finished was added to the 
world's stores of fiction. I am bold to say that there could 
not be two opinions among open-minded persons, be the 
English ever so " slow to move " (as the author of " De Vere " 
has it). They were quicker, however, in Hawthorne's case 
than they were in America. But it is one of my greatest 
pleasures, as a journalist, to recollect that I was the first who 
had the honor of calling attention to these tales when they 
appeared in the form of periodical articles. What Haw- 
thorne's reputation has since grown into — a universal fame 
— I need not recount. From the first, I followed its growth 
at a distance, step by step, with the pleasure which one has of 
seeing dawn brightening into day, and day ripening into noon, 
without the slightest idea that I should ever see or ever be 



64 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

known to him. That I wished to form some idea of the man, 
as distinct from the author, is no less true. The sole idea I 
could " realize " (as the Americans say) was one of his invin- 
cible shyness. No one had seen him, or met him, or known 
him ; so ran the legend. It was a clear case of mystery, in 
its way, I have since come to think, as fondly promoted and 
cherished by the romancer as that of the " Great Unknown." 

There is small need to recall how, subsequently, appeared a 
second miscellany, " Mosses from an old Manse " (among 
other legends, containing that ghastliest of stories, " Rapac- 
cini's Daughter"), then " The Scarlet Letter," and the yet 
more original " House of Seven Gables," " The Blithedale 
Pomance," and, lastly, "Transformation." Such works of 
art as these, like all real creations, must make their way. It 
was then with no common interest I heard that his own coun- 
try, by way of paying due honor to Hawthorne, was doing its 
utmost for him by appointing him to the consulate at Liver- 
pool. At the same time it was told me that, on accepting the 
appointment, he inquired whether the American consul would, 
ex officio, be obliged to talk much, and on being told not, in 
reply, laconically said, " Thank God ! " 

When I heard that Hawthorne was to live at Liverpool as 
American consul, it seemed clear that, with some knowledge 
of the best, most liberal, and most delicately-minded of those 
who then, as now, dispensed public hospitality and private 
kindliness in the town, I might justifiably write to him, and 
refer him to them, in case he should stand in need of society 
and private sympathy, totally apart from anything like the tin- 
seled folly of lio?iis?n. I did so, and received no answer to 
my letter. Hawthorne established himself, as his Memoirs 
have told us, at Rock Ferry, in Cheshire, enjoyed as much as 
lie cared to enjoy, and afterwards retired into that sulky, sus- 
picious mood (of a consul taking pay ?) which befits a misun- 
derstood hero. To myself, and those to whom I sent him, he 
responded by neither "look, word, nor sign." 

After some natural disappointment, I naturally came to for- 
get the man, and to think only of his admirable books. It 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 6$ 

was, then, with surprise that, some years later, I received a 
note from a boarding-house in Golden Square, in which Haw- 
thorne announced his arrival in London, and his great desire 
to see me before he returned home (" as one," etc., etc., etcetera) 
I answered this in person, and found, what I might have been 
sure of, a most genial and original man, full of life, full of 
humor, in no respect shy. He agreed at once to pass a day 
with me. I gave him the option of a party or no party. He 
chose the latter alternative. A pleasanter day than the one 
in question is not in my " Golden Book." I think I have 
never heard any one, save my honored friend Carlyle, laugh so 
heartily as did Hawthorne. It is generally a nervous business 
to receive those to whom one has long looked up ; but it was 
not the least so in his case. The impression I received was 
one of a man genial, and not over sensitive, even when we 
could make merry on the subject of national differences and 
susceptibilities. 

This experience, it may well be believed, has made me read 
with an amazement almost approaching distress the book 
Hawthorne published on his return home, and, later, the 
selections from his manuscript journals, put forward by his 
widow. It is hard to conceive the existence of so much pet- 
tishness in a man so great and real ; of such a resolution to 
brood over fancied slights and strange formalities, yet, withal, 
to generalize so widely on such narrow premises ; of such vul- 
garity in one who had written for the public so exquisitely. It 
is difficult to accept such a w r riter's criticisms on " the steaks 
and sirloins " of English ladies. I still remember Hester 
Prynne and Pearl, in the " Scarlet Letter," and Phcebe and 
Hepzibah, in the " House of the Seven Gables," and ask my- 
self how far the case in point proves the adage that there is 
nothing so essentially nasty as refinement. The tone of these 
English journals is as small and peevish as if their writer had 
been thwarted and overlooked, instead of waited on by hearty 
offers of service, which in most cases were declined almost as 
persistently as if they had been so many affronts. A more 
puzzling case of inconsistency and duality has never come be- 
fore me. 



66 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY. 

Spiritualism. 

I have always, on principle, resisted swelling the crowd of 
those, professedly anxious to wait on experiments, in reality 
hungerers and thirsters after " sensation ; " the more since, 
when the imagination is once engaged, those as nervous as 
myself may well mistrust that which by way of term is so 
largely abused — " the evidence of the senses." What do our 
keenest powers of observation avail, when they are brought to 
bear on the legerdemain of a Robert Houdin, a Bosco (that 
distasteful, fat old Italian, who executed his wonders by the 
aid of hands ending arms naked to the shoulder) ? What, still 
more, when they attempt to unravel the sorceries of such a 
conjuror as the Chevalier de Caston — the man who could 
name the cards which distant persons had silently taken from 
an unbroken pack, with his back turned and blindfolded, and 
at the distance of a drawing-room and a half ? This, further, 
I saw him do. There were three of us sitting on an ottoman 
in the front room, he, as I have said, with his back to us, and 
thoroughly blindfolded. Two opaque porcelain slates, to all 
appearance entirely new, were brought. On one of these, 
each of the three wrote, in pencil, a question, without uttering 
a word. The slates were laid face to face, and bound together 
with a broad ribbon, thus totally clear of transparency. My 
question was, in French, " What was the color of Cleopatra's 
hair ? " I forget the other two. The Chevalier put his hands 
behind his chair. I placed the slates so bound in the two 
hands. He retained them a moment without stirring or turn- 
ing, and to my amazement, said, " Cleopatra dyed her hair, so 
wore all colors." The other two questions, which I have for- 
gotten, were no less pertinently and explicitly answered. 
Now, even on the theory of complicitly, it would be by no 
means easy to explain this feat. I can only say that I am sat- 
isfied I have recounted it accurately. 1 

When one Alexis was here, who was guarantied to read 

1 This Chevalier de Caston, by the way, was the only professor of his art who suc- 
ceeded in puzzling Charles Dickens, himself a consummate and experienced conjuror, 



SPIRITUALISM. 67 

everything, no matter how far off, however hermetically sealed 
up, 1 a friend of mine called on his way to a seance — no willing 
co-juggler with Alexis, I am persuaded, but leaning towards 
his marvels. He was anxious that I should bear him com- 
pany. I declined, on the argument I have stated. " Well," 
said he, " what would satisfy you ? " Said I, " Supposing 1 
were to write an odd word — such a one as ' orchestra ' — and 
seal it, and satisfy myself that no one could read it without - 
breaking the seal, and be equally satisfied that no one would 
mention it who was honestly disposed " — " Well ? " " Well, 
then, if it was read, I should say the guess was a good one — 
nothing more." " Let us try." I went into an adjoining room 
for writing materials, and thought, as an odd word, of " Pon- 
dicherry." I wrote down this ; I satisfied my eyes that no 
one could read it unless it was tampered with. It was signed, 
sealed and delivered. I am, at this day of writing, as satisfied 
of my friend's honor as I am of my own. He was to come 
back to dine with me and to report what had happened. He 
did come back, scared considerably, but in no respect dis- 
abused. " Well," said I, " did he read my note ? " " Oh, yes, 
immediately ; but he read it wrong. He read orchestra." 
That my friend may have whispered, " Chorley's test-word " 
into some ear can hardly be doubted by those who are, as 
Hood says, " with small belief encumbered ; " but, of his hon- 
est self he took the performance as a brilliant illustration of 
though t-reading. 

Almost enough of these pitiful matters. One more experi- 
ence, however, is not unworthy of being told, as showing how 
the agitation was kept up, and, when denounced, how those 
denouncing it were treated. I was in the house of an old 
friend given to divers amusements and sensations, who, one 
evening, having a society rather credulous, mesmeric, and 
supernaturally disposed around her, bethought herself, by way 
of the evening's amusement, " to turn tables ; " if rappings 
came, so much the better. I was about to leave, in the full- 

1 Yet the reading of the number of the historical bank note of ,£1,000, payable te 
h. « who could pronounce it, has never, I believe, been accomplished. 



68 HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLKY. 

ness, or emptiness (which ?) of my unbelief, when I was espe- 
cially asked to remain and be convinced. I felt that inquiry 
was impossible, and I said so ; but in answer I was asked, 
" What form of inquiry would satisfy me ? If I would stay, I 
might inquire to the utmost." The answer was, a row of 
candles on the floor and my seat underneath the table. All 
this was cordially, kindly granted to the unbeliever, who had 
been persuaded to stay. Down sat the believers ; almost on 
the floor sat the unbeliever. The above made a chain of 
hands ; the low man watched their feet. The table, which I 
am assured bore a fair reputation among wooden oracles, was 
steadfast not to stir. I sat, and they sat, and we sat for 
nearly a good half-hour. (Happily, the abominable pretext at 
a prayer had been omitted.) At length, the eight believers 
became tired ; and the most enthusiastic among them broke 
up the seance in " a temper." " There can be no experiments," 
said he, " where an infidel spirit prevails." And so I went 
forth, branded as a " spoil-sport ; " and, as such, in a certain 
world, have never recovered the place before that time allowed 
me. 

Long live legerdemain as a useless combination of ingen- 
uity, memory, and mechanical appliances — owned as such ! 
But when, after seeing its perfect marvels, exhibited by way 
of dramatic show and paid for by money, one is invited and 
expected to believe in revelations which have never told one 
secret — in oracles from the dead, the best of which amount 
to the sweet spring saying, " Grass is green " — it is not 
wholly unnatural that with some, be they ever so prosaic, be 
they ever so imaginative, the gorge will rise, and the dogma- 
tism (it may be) become strong, if only because it is the inevit- 
able descendant of the superstition. To play with the deep- 
est and most sacred mysteries of the heart and brain, of love 
beyond the grave, of that yearning affection which takes a 
thousand shapes when distance and suspense divide it from 
its object, is a fearful and unholy work. If this dreary chap- 
ter, which expresses almost the sincerest of convictions thai 
can influence a man towards the decline of his life, can makt 



CHORLEY IT GAD'S HILL. 69 

any one disposed to tamper with "wandering thoughts and 
vain imaginations " consider, without cant or pedantry, the ar- 
gument endeavored to be illustrated, it will not have been 
written in vain. 

Chorley at Gad's Hill. 

" Mr. Chorley used to come constantly to Gad's Hill, used 
often to invite himself, and was always most welcome. Peo- 
ple who were in the habit of seeing him only in London would 
hardly have known him at Gad's Hill, I think. He was a 
brighter and younger being altogether there. He would be 
down punctually to breakfast by nine o'clock, very often ear- 
lier ; would occupy himself writing, or reading, etc., all the 
morning, and, after luncheon, set off for a long walk with my 
father. I remember one day our going for a picnic a long way 
off ; some of our party driving, some walking. When we 
started to return, we all took it for granted that Mr. Chorley 
would drive. But my father walking, he walked too. It was 
a hot summer's day, and they did eighteen miles — walking, 
as my father always did, at a good pace ; and Mr. Chorley 
came down to dinner as bright and as fresh as possible. This 
sort of thing for most men, is of course, no matter for sur- 
prise ; but to those who knew Mr. Chorley, and his appar- 
ently weak physique, it was quite wonderful to see how much 
he could do. He was always ready for any game, charade, or 
impromptu amusement of any sort and was capital at it. One 
Christmas my father proposed, quite suddenly, that we should 
have some charades. They were to be in dumb pantomine, 
and Mr. Chorley was to play the piano. He immediately be- 
gan to practice music suitable for the different scenes. And 
when the evening arrived, he came down dressed up in the 
queerest way, and sat down to the piano, in a meek and un- 
obtrusive manner, being a poor old musician, and very shy, 
and very shabby, and very hungry, and wretched-looking al- 
together. He played this part admirably the whole evening, 
and his get-up was excellent. A great many of the audience 
didn't know him at first. He had made a secret about this 



yo HENRY FOTHERGILL CHOREE K 

dressing-up, and had done it all by himself ; and I met him on 
the stairs and didn't know him ! He was most innocently 
proud of the success of his self-invented part. 

" I think he was a truly kind and charitable man, doing all 
sorts of good and generous deeds in a quiet, unostentatious 
way. I do not suppose anybody really in need ever applied to 
him in vain. And I know he has given a helping hand to sev- 
eral young musicians, who, without the aid of his kind hand, 
could not have risen to be what they now are. He was very 
grateful for any love and attention shown to him, and never 
forgot a kindness done to him. I believe he loved my father 
better than any man in the world ; was grateful to him for his 
friendship, and truly proud of possessing it, which he certainly 
did to a very large amount. My father was very fond of him, 
and had the greatest respect for his honest, straightforward, 
upright, and generous character. I think, and am very glad to 
think, that the happiest days of Mr. Chorley's life — his later 
life, that is to say — were passed at Gad's Hill. 

" After my father's death, and before we left the deal old 
home, Mr. Chorley wrote and asked me if I would send him a 
branch off each of our large cedar-trees, as a remembrance 
of the place. My friend, and his dear friend, Mrs. Lehmann, 
saw him lying calm and peaceful in his coffin, with a large 
green branch on each side of him. She did not understand 
what this meant, but I did, and was much touched, as, of 
course, he had given orders that these branches should be 
laid with him in his coffin. So a piece of the place he loved 
so much, for its dear master's sake, went down to the grave 
with him." 

Mamie Dickens. 



J. ROBINSON PLANCHfi, 



J. ROBINSON PLANCHfi. 




Elliston. 

flLLISTON had become proprietor of the Olympic Pa- 
vilion, as it was then called, in Wych Street, built 
originally by old Astley for equestrian performances. 
At his suggestion, I wrote a speaking hai lequinade, 
with songs for the columbine, the subject being " Little Red 
Riding Hood." On the first night of its representation (De- 
cember 2T, 1818), every trick failed, not a scene could be in- 
duced to close or to open properly, and the curtain fell at 
length amid a storm of disapprobation. I was with Mr. Elli- 
son and his family in a private box. He sent round an order 
to the prompter, that not one of the carpenters, scene-shifters, 
or property-men were to leave the theatre until he had spoken 
to them. As soon as the house was cleared, the curtain was 
raised, and all the culprits assembled on the stage in front of 
one of the scenes in the piece representing the interior of a 
cottage, having a door in one half and a latticed window in the 
other. Elliston led me forward, and standing in the centre, 
with his back to the foot-lights, harangued them in the most 
grandiloquent language — expatiated on the enormity of their 
offense, their ingratitude to the man whose bread they were 
eating, the disgrace they had brought upon the theatre, the 
cruel injury they had inflicted on the young and promising au- 
thor by his side ; then pointing in the most tragical attitude to 
his wife and daughters, who remained in the box, bade them 
look upon the family they had ruined, and burying his face in 



74 7- ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

his handkerchief to stifle his sobs, passed slowly through the 
door in the scene, leaving his auditors silent, abashed, and 
somewhat affected, yet rather relieved by being let off with a 
lecture. The next minute the casement in the other flat was 
thrown violently open, and thrusting in his head, his face scar- 
let with fury, he roared out, " I discharge you all ! " I feel 
my utter incapacity to convey an idea of this ludicrous scene, 
and I question whether any one unacquainted with the man, 
his voice, action, and wonderful facial expression, could thor- 
oughly realize the glorious absurdity of it from verbal descrip- 
tion. With Elliston I was extremely intimate for several years, 
and had great respect for his amiable wife and charming daugh- 
ters, but our mutual friend, the late George Raymond, has 
written so exhaustive a life of this " Napoleon of the Drama," 
— so thoroughly described the man, and so industriously col- 
lected every scrap of information, concerning him, every anec- 
dote connected with him, — that there is only one little incident 
that I do not find he has mentioned, at least in the edition I 
possess, and it is so characteristic, that it deserves recording. 
Within a few hours of his death he objected to take some 
medicine, and, in order to induce him to do so, he was told he 
should have some brandy and water afterwards. A faint smile 
stole over his face, the old roguish light gleamed for a mo- 
ment in his glazing eye, as he murmured, " Bribery and cor- 
ruption" They were almost the last intelligible words he 
uttered. Elliston was one of the best general actors I have 
ever seen ; but the parts in which he has remained unrivaled 
to this day were the gentlemanly rakes and agreeable rattles 
in high comedy. His Ranger, Archer, Mario w, Doricourt, 
Charles Surface, Rover, Tangent, and many other such char- 
acters, he made his own — and no wonder, for these charac- 
ters reflected his own. 

Samuel Beazley. 

Dear, good-tempered, clever, generous, eccentric, Sam Beaz- 
ley ! He died in Tonbridge Castle, where he resided for the 
few last years of his life, having a professional appointment in 



SAMUEL BEAZLEY. 75 

connection with the South Eastern Railway* Many years be- 
fore, he wrote his own epitaph : — 

; ' Here lies Samuel Beazley, 
Who lived hard and died easily." 

Alas ! the latter declaration was not prophetic. He suffered 
considerably a short time before his decease, and his usual 
spirits occasionally forsaking him, he one day wrote so melan- 
choly a letter, that the friend to whom it was addressed, ob- 
served, in his reply, that it was " like the first chapter of Jere- 
miah." " You are mistaken, my dear fellow," retorted the wit ; 
" it is the last chapter of Samuel." 

Beazley never had five shillings for himself, but he could al- 
ways find five pounds for a friend. Returning with him, in his 
carriage, from a Greenwich dinner, I casually alluded to the 
comfort of being independent of public conveyances. " Yes," 
he said ; " but I'm rather a remarkable man. I have a car- 
riage, and a cabriolet, and three horses, and a coachman, and 
a footman, and a large house, and a cook and three maid-ser- 
vants, and a mother and a sister, and — half-a-crown." 

It was scarcely an exaggeration, and yet he was never known 
to be in debt, and left many little legacies to friends, besides 
providing for his widow and only daughter. He was truly " a 
remarkable man." The work he got through was something 
astounding. He appeared to take no rest. He built theatres 
and wrote for them with the same rapidity ; had always " just 
arrived by the mail " in time to see the fish removed from the 
table, or was going off by the early coach after the last dance 
at four in the morning. At dinner, or at ball, was there a lady 
who appeared neglected, because she was old, ill-favored, or 
uninteresting, Beazley was sure to pay her the most respectful 
and delicate attentions. Not a breath of scandal ever escaped 
his lips ; not an unkind word did I ever hear him utter. There 
were two men whom he held in horror, but he never abused 
them ; his brow darkened if their names were mentioned, but 
by that, and his silence alone could you have surmised that he 
entertained the least feeling against them. His pleasant say- 



76 J. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

ings would fill a volume. The wit was, perhaps, not particu- 
larly pungent, but it was always playful. Building a staircase 
for Sir Henry Meux, he called it a new " Gradus ad Parnas- 
sum," because it was steps for the Muses, Some very old 
brandy, pathetically pointed out by George Robins as having 
been left to him by his father, he proposed should be called, 
u Spirit of my Sainted Sire ! " and when the question arose of 
how the title of Herold's charming Opera, " Le Pre aux Clercs,' 
should be rendered in English, he quietly suggested " Par- 
son's Green." Beazley was essentially a gentleman, and it is, 
therefore, a greater gratification to me to record him as one of 
the first to take me by the hand in the society to which I had 
been so suddenly and unexpectedly introduced. 

Sir Lumley Skeffington. 

There was another habitue with whom I became acquainted 
at the same period ; one of the last of that peculiar style of fop 
whose dress and manners were unsparingly caricatured in the 
print-shops, and became conventional on the stage. But with 
all his extravagance of attire, his various-colored under waist- 
coats, his rouged cheeks, and coal-black wig, with portentous 
toupee, poor old Sir Lumley Skeffington was a perfect gentle- 
man, a most agreeable companion, and bore " the stings and 
arrows of outrageous fortune " with Spartan courage and 
Christian resignation. Though his fair-weather friends had 
deserted him, no complaint or reproach ever passed his lips. 
But once only, during the many years we were acquainted, did 
I hear him allude to the misery of his position. We were the 
only two guests at the dinner-table of a mutual friend, and Sir 
Lumley had been particularly lively and entertaining. Our 
host being called out of the room to speak to some one on 
business, I congratulated the old baronet on his excellent 
spirits. " Ah ! my dear Mr. Planche," he replied, " it's all 
very well while I am in society ; but I give you my honor, I 
should heartily rejoice if I felt certain that after leaving this 
house to-night I should be found dead on my own doorstep.' 
I shall never forget the deep but quiet pathos of these sad 



PEAKE, THE DRAMATIST. J J 

words. I am happy to add that he lived to inherit a small 
property, and ended his days in peace and comfort. 

Peake, the Dramatist. 

I have spoken of Peake as " a humorist," for I know no 
epithet that would so accurately describe him. He was not a 
wit in the true sense of the word. There is not a scintilla of 
wit that I can remember in any of his dramas or in his con- 
versation ; but there was some good fun in a few of his farces, 
and he had a happy knack of " fitting " his actors, a memor- 
able example of which is Geoffrey Mufrmcap, the charity 
school-boy, in " Amateurs and Actors," which was expressly 
written to suit the peculiarities of person, voice, and manner 
of Wilkinson. Peake's humor consisted in a grotesque com- 
bination of ideas, such as the following : Calling with him 
one summer day on a mutual friend, the fire-place in the 
drawing-room was ornamented with a mass of long slips of 
white paper falling over the bright bars of the stove. Peake's 
first question was, " What do you keep your macaroni in the 
grate for ? " At a party at Beazley's his black servant entered 
to make up the fire. Peake whispered to me, " Beazley's 
nigger has been scratching his head, and got a scuttle of coals 
out." I could fill a page or two with such concetti, which, 
spurted out in his peculiar manner, were perhaps more com- 
ical to hear than to repeat. His farces were usually damned 
the first night, and recovered themselves wonderfully after- 
wards. A striking instance of this was " A. Hundred-Pound 
Note," at Covent Garden, in which the conundrums, bandied 
between Power and Keeley, were violently hissed on the first 
representation, and received with roars of laughter subse- 
quently. Indeed they may be said to have popularized, if not 
originated, the " why and because " style of jesting, which forms 
a principal feature in our comic journals and Christy Minstrel 
entertainments. His failures I consider were attributable to a 
strange misapprehension of the principles of dramatic com- 
position. Any absurdity which had made him laugh, he as- 
sumed must necessarily produce a similar effect on a general 



78 7- ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

audience ; a most fatal mistake for any one to fall into who 
caters for that "many-headed monster," the public. Poor 
Dicky's misfortunes rarely came alone. He was wo^t to 
pace Waterloo Bridge during the performance of a new piece, 
and on returning to the theatre received, with the account of 
its failure, the tidings on more than one occasion that his wife 
had presented him with twins. His extreme good temper and 
obliging nature made him a universal favorite. He was devo- 
tedly attached to Mr. Arnold, whose bond for 200/., in acknowl- 
edgment of his long and faithful service, he generously thrust 
into the breakfast-room fire before him, the morning after the 
burning down of the Lyceum Theatre (February 16th, 1830), 
saying, " You have lost all by fire, let this go too." Richard 
Brinsley Peake died a poor man — a singular circumstance 
considering that he had been for so many years the treasurer 
of a theatre. 

Von Weber's "Oberon." 

The year 1826 is memorable in the annals of music, for it is 
that in which Carl Maria von Weber produced his last great 
opera, " Oberon," on the English stage. The deathless work of 
a dying man. Mr. Charles Kemble having engaged the cele- 
brated composer of " Der Freischiitz " to write an opera ex- 
pressly for the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, I had the honor 
of being selected to furnish the libretto, the subject having 
been chosen by Weber himself. An immense responsibility 
was placed upon my shoulders. The fortunes of the season 
were staked upon the success of the piece. Had I constructed 
it in the form which would have been most agreeable to me 
and acceptable to Weber, it could not have been performed 
by the company at Covent Garden, and if attempted must 
have proved a complete fiasco. None of our actors could 
sing, and but one singer could act — Madame Vestris — who 
made a charming Fatima. A young lady who subsequently 
became one of the most popular actresses in my recollection 
was certainly included in the cast ; but she had not a line 
to speak, and was pressed into the service in consequence of 
the paucity of vocalists, as she had a sweet though not very 



VON WEBER'S " OBEKON." 79 

powerful voice, and was even then artist enough to be in 
trusted with anything. That young lady was Miss Goward, 
now Mrs. Keeley, and to her was assigned the exquisite Mer- 
maid Song in the finale of the second act. At the first general 
rehearsal with full band, scenery, etc., the effect was not 
satisfactory, and Fawcett, in his usual brusque manner, ex- 
claimed, " That must come out ! — it won't go ! " Weber, who 
was standing in the pit, leaning on the back of the orchestra, 
so feeble that he could scarcely stand without such support, 
shouted, " Wherefore shall it not go ? " and leaping over the 
partition like a boy, snatched the baton from the hand of the 
conductor, and saved from excision one of the most delicious 
morceaux in the opera. No vocalist could be found equal to 
the part of Sherasmin. It was, therefore, acted by Fawcett, 
and a bass singer, named Isaacs, was lugged in head and 
shoulders to eke out the charming quatuor, " Over the Dark 
Blue Waters." Braham, the greatest English tenor perhaps 
ever known, was about the worst actor ever seen, and the 
most unromantic person in appearance that can well be 
imagined. His deserved popularity as a vocalist induced the 
audience to overlook his deficiencies in other qualifications, 
but they were not the less fatal to the dramatic effect of the 
character of Huon de Bordeaux, the dauntless paladin who had 
undertaken to pull a hair out of the Caliph's beard, slay the 
man who sat on his right hand, and kiss his daughter ! Miss 
Paton, with a grand soprano voice, and sufficiently prepos- 
sessing person, was equally destitute of histrionic ability, and 
consequently of the four principal parts in the opera only one 
was adequately represented, that of Fatima by Madame Ves- 
tris. Amongst the minor characters, Miss Harriet Cawse, a 
pupil of Sir George Smart's, distinguished herself as an arch 
and melodious Puck, and did her " spiriting gently," and Mr. 
Charles Bland, brother of James the future king of extrava- 
ganza, was happily gifted with a voice which enabled him to 
execute at least respectably the airs assigned to the King of 
the Fairies. The composer therefore had justice fairly done 
to him, and any short-comings, as far as the drama was con- 



80 7 AOBINSON PLAiVCHA. 

cerned, were of secondary importance. My great object was 
to land Weber safe amidst an unmusical public, and I there- 
fore wrote a melodrama with songs, instead of an opera, such 
as would be required at the present day. I am happy to say 
that I succeeded in that object, and had the great gratification 
of feeling that he fully appreciated my motives, and approved 
of my labors. On the morning after the production of the 
opera (April 12), I met him on the stage. He embraced me 
most affectionately, and exultingly exclaimed, " Now we will 
go to work and write another opera together, and then they 
they shall see what we can do ! " " Man proposes and Heaven 
disposes." In a few weeks after I followed him to his grave ! 
(" Oberon " was the song of the dying swan.) The hand ot 
death was upon him before he commenced it, and the increas- 
ing weight upon his spirit is unmistakably evident in the 
latter portion of his work. 

According to the courteous custom which has prevailed time 
out of mind in English theatricals, an Easter piece on the sub- 
ject of " Oberon " had been rushed out at Drury Lane in an- 
ticipation of Weber's opera, and, in addition to this, Bishop 
was engaged to write an opera to be produced in opposition to 
it, the libretto by George Soane being founded on the popular 
story of " Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp." It was not very 
favorably received, and the delicious warbling of Miss Stephens 
could not secure for it more than a lingering existence of a 
few nights. Tom Cooke, the leader of the orchestra at Drury 
Lane, one of the cleverest musicians and most amusing of men, 
met Braham in Bow Street, and asked him how his opera 
(" Oberon ") was going. " Magnificently ! " replied the great 
tenor, and added, in a fit of what he used to call e?it/ioose?nusy, 
ht not to speak it profanely, it will run io the day of judg- 
ment ! " — " My clear fellow," rejoined Cooke, " that's nothing ! 
Ours has run five nights afterwards ! " 

William Jerdan. 

His unvarying kindness to me and mine for upwards of 
thirty years imperatively demands this brief but sincere ac- 



THOMAS HOOD. 8 1 

knowledgment. He was my near neighbor, occupying a 
large house, with a long garden attached to it, in what was 
Brompton Grove, and is now Ovington Square. There I met 
Crofton Croker and his clever wife, Tom Hood and his 
brother-in-law, John Hamilton Reynolds, whose dawning gen- 
ius had attracted the notice of Byron ; the Rev. George Croly, 
author of the " Angel of the World," and the comedy of 
" Pride shall have a Fall," which latter work, produced at Co- 
gent Garden, not meeting with much success, Poole, who 
hated him, invariably spoke of, as " ' Croly shall have a Fall, 
by the Rev. George Pride," and Miss Landon — poor L. E. L. 

— whose early death in the fatal region of Sierra Leone caused 
a painful excitement in literary circles. A melancholy roll-call 

— not one remains to answer " Here ! " Jerdan, himself the 
earliest born, was the latest who left us. He attained the 
patriarchal age of eighty-eight, dying only two years ago, June 
nth, 1869, having retired from the editorship of the " Literary 
Gazette," in 1850. In a notice of his decease in the " Times " 
newspaper, it was remarked that " his kindly help was always 
afforded to young aspirants in literature and art, and his memory 
will be cherished by many whom he helped to rise to positions 
of honor and independence. As one who specially enjoyed 
that " kindly help," and was a frequent witness of its ready 
extension to others, it is my gratifying duty to testify to the 
truth of that honorable record. His buoyant spirits enabled 
him to bear up against " a sea of troubles," which would have 
overwhelmed an ordinary man. Mr. Moyes, his printer, " a 
canny Scot," being asked by a mutual acquaintance, " Has our 
friend Jerdan got through his difficulties ? " characteristically 
exclaimed, " Difficulties ! I never knew he was in any." 

Thomas Hood. 

The genius of Tom Hood has been so generally acknowl- 
edged, his humor and his pathos so highly appreciated, and so 
many anecdotes recorded of him, that I shall only cite a few of 
his sallies, which I believe have never been chronicled. At a 
large dinner party at Jerdan's one of the guests indulged in 
6 



82 7 ROBINSON PLANCH&. 

some wonderful accounts of his shooting. The number of 
birds he had killed, and the distances at which he had brought 
them down, were extraordinary. Hood quietly remarked, — 

" What he hit is history, 
What he missed is mystery." 

Anything more happily conceived and expressed I contend it 
would be difficult to discover. 

At the same house, on another occasion, when Power the 
actor was present, Hood was asked to propose his health. 
After enumerating the various talents that popular comedian 
possessed, he requested the company to observe that such a 
combination was a remarkable illustration of the old proverb, 
" It never rains but it powers" 

In his last illness, reduced as he was to a skeleton, he no- 
ticed a very large mustard poultice which Mrs. Hood was 
making for him, and exclaimed, " O Mary ! Mary ! — that will 
be a great deal of mustard to a very little meat ! " 

Shortly before his death, being visited by a clergyman whose 
features as well as language were more lugubrious than consol- 
ing, Hood looked up at him compassionately and said, " My 
dear sir ! I'm afraid your religion doesn't agree with you/ 

There seemed to be a mint in his mind in which the coining 
of puns was incessantly and almost unconsciously in process, 
not with the mere object of raising a laugh, but because his 
marvelous command of language enabled him to use words in 
every possible sense in which they could be understood ; and 
he could not help playing upon them, even in his most serious 
moods. For instance, in that pathetic appeal to the benevo- 
lence of the public on behalf of the widow and children of poor 
Elton, the actor, who was drowned on his passage from Leith 
to Hull, in 1843, after most touchingly describing the lifeless 
hand idly playing with the tangled weed, he concludes with a 
parallel between the dead and the living, by imploring assist- 
ance for the latter, who is struggling "'mid breakers huge 
enough to break the heart." Admirably delivered as I heard 
it, by Mrs. Sterling, the power of the line told upon the au- 
dience with increased effect from the play on the word, which 



JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. 83 

I question if any other writer would have hazarded under such 
circumstances. 

When the water broke into the Thames Tunnel, during the 
progress of the work, he said to me, " They've been laboring 
at that affair for a long time, and now the Thames has filled 
up their leisure." On my repeating this to Charles Kemble, 
the same afternoon, he said, " Well, Planche, I can't see any- 
thing in that so" laughable, he would have added; but 

he began to laugh before he could finish the sentence. 

John Hamilton Reynolds. 

John Hamilton Reynolds, his brother-in-law, and collabora- 
teur in some of his works, less generally known to the public, 
was only inferior to his celebrated connection as a wit, a poet, 
and if I may be allowed the expression, a philosophical punster. 

He was specially distinguished for the aptness of his quota- 
tions. Finding him one day lunching at the " Garrick," 1 asked 
him if the beef he was eating was good. "It would have 
been," he answered, " if damned custom had not brazed it so." 

Not long before his death, he was appointed treasurer of a 
County Court in the Isle of Wight. It was absolute exile for 
a man of his town tastes and habits, and he lost no opportunity 
of running up, if only for a few hours, to London. Expatiating 
on the dullness of the locality to which he was relegated, and 
the absence of that class of society to which he had been all 
his life accustomed, he told me how that, one evening he had 
attended a tea-party, and noticing a pretty, bright-looking girl, 
he entered into conversation with her, and elicited from her, 
to his great gratification, that she was very fond of poetry. 
" Then, of course, you admire, as much as I do, Shakespeare's 
exquisite comedy of ' As you like it.' " " I have read it," she 
answered ; " but I don't understand it — ." " Not understand 
it ! Then I am afraid you don't understand a tree." This 
was infinitely beyond her, and with a look of blank astonish- 
ment, she replied, " I don't know what you mean." " Upon 
which," said Reynolds, " I took my leave of her ' under the 
shade of melancholy bows? " The happiness of this quotation 



84 7- ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

from the play itself, might have induced even Doctor Johnson 
wO pardon the pun it inevitably suggested. 

L. E. L. 

Of Laetitia Elizabeth Landon, Mr. and Mrs. Carter Hall 
have given so minute and interesting an account in their 
" Book of Memories," that it leaves me little to say, beyond 
adding my testimony to the truth of all they have asserted in 
defense of that most cruelly maligned lady, and my tribute of 
regret at her miserable and unmerited fate. I was her con- 
stant visitor in Hans Place, and have preserved some letters 
of hers, and of her friend Miss Emma Roberts ; but they con- 
tain no passages that would justify quotation. I remember 
" L. E. L.," however, saying to me one day, when congratulat- 
ing me on some recent success in the theatre, " I would give 
all the reputation I have gained, or am ever likely to gain, by 
writing books, for one great triumph on the stage. The praise 
of critics or friends may be more or less sincere ; but the 
spontaneous thunder of applause of a mixed multitude of utter 
strangers, uninfluenced by any feelings but those excited at the 
moment, is an acknowledgment of gratification surpassing, in 
my opinion, any other description of approbation.' ' 

The Superannuated General Postman. 

Oh happy days of England, when babies were really born 
with gold spoons in their mouths, and could be made colonels 
of regiments, commissioners of excise, or masters of the Mint, 
in their cradles, and without competitive examination ! The 
great-grandfather of a friend of mine affords a remarkable ex- 
ample of this precocity of preferment. The lady of a cabinet 
minister (1 purposely suppress names) had promised to stand 
godmother to the infant, and calling on his parents a day or 
two previous to the ceremony, expressed her regret that Lord 

had nothing left at his disposal of any importance ; and 

that the only thing he could do for her godson was to put his 
name on the pension-list as a superannuated general postman. 
The offer was accepted. The pension was regularly paid to 



THE SUPERANNUATED GENERAL POSTMAN 85 

the parents during the minority of their son, and to him after- 
wards as long as he lived. He thrived in the world, became 
an alderman of Chichester, and attained a considerable age, 
often declaring that he had more pleasure in pocketing the few 
pounds he drew half-yearly from this source, than he derived 
from the receipt of any other portion of his income. He died 
a few days after one payment was due, and one of his execu- 
tors came to town to receive the money and announce his 
decease. On asking the clerk who paid him if it were neces- 
sary to produce a certificate of the death, he was answered, 
" Oh no, not in the least — I will take your word for it. M} 
father paid this pension as long as he lived, and I have paid it 

myself for the last thirty years. Pm quite sure Mr. 

must be dead by this time." He had been a superannuated 
general postman for upwards of eighty years ! His descend- 
ant is now a baronet and a member of parliament ; and I haa 
the story from his father at his own dinner-table. 

The Peace of Amiens. 

Dining recently with an old friend and schoolfellow, the con- 
versation turned upon the ages of the persons present, and 
each was asked what was the earliest public event he could re- 
member. My answer was, " The general illumination for the 
peace of Amiens." " The peace of Amiens ? Why, that was 
in 1801 !" exclaimed a learned judge who sat near to. me. 
" Exactly ; but I remember it perfectly." He turned to his 
next neighbor, and, in an audible whisper, said, " The wander- 
ing Jew ! " In support of my assertion I then related the fol- 
lowing circumstance. Monsieur Otto, the French Minister, 
resided, at that time, in Portman Square, and my father having 
moved from Old Burlington Street into Park Street, Gros- 
venor Square, took me to see the illumination at the French 
Embafsy, which was exceedingly magnificent. The house 
aras one blaze of colored lamps from parlor to parapet. Green 
olive-branches with red berries — not natural, but effective — 
and other pacific emblems surrounded the windows ; and 
above those of the drawing-room, occupying the whole breadth 



86 y. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

of the building, glittered in golden-colored lamps the word 
" Concorde." Though as nearly English as a French word 
could well be, it was misinterpreted by a number of sailors in 
the crowd, who began shouting, " We are not conquered ! 
Pull it down ! " The mob, always ripe for a row, took up the 
cry, and was proceeding from uproar to violence, when some 
one announced from the doorsteps that the obnoxious word 
•should be altered ; and a host of lamplighters were speedily 
seen busily employed in removing and substituting for it 
" Auntie." Unfortunately this was also misunderstood by the 
ignorant masses for " Enmity," and the storm again raged 
with redoubled fury. Ultimately was done what should have 
been done at first. The word " Peace " was displayed, and 
peace was restored to Portman Square for the rest of the 
evening. The peace itself was of not much longer duration. 
What a different thing was a general illumination in those 
days to one at the present time ! True, there was no gas, nor 
so much picturesque effect as modern art has, by the means of 
cut glass, produced in such decorations as have delighted the 
public at Poole's ; but, on the other hand, the former illumina- 
tions were really general. Not a window in the smallest 
court or blindest alley but had its candle stuck in a lump of 
clay, while in houses of more pretension one blazed in every 
pane. Rows of flambeaux fastened to the area railings flared 
in every direction, and long lines of variegated lamps bordered 
every balcony, or, arranged in graceful festoons, valanced each 
verandah. There was not a dark street to be found in Lon- 
don. Mobs paraded the metropolis, from Hyde Park Corner 
to Whitechapel, with shouts of " Light up ! Light up ! " and 
smashed every window that did not swiftly display a humble 
dip in obedience to the summons. Since the rejoicings for the 
crowning victory of Waterloo, nothing like a general illumina- 
tion has been seen in London. 

Manager Morris. 

Mr. David Morris was a great character. A thoroughly 
honorable gentleman and a shrewd man of business, by no 



MANAGER MORRIS. 8j 

means illiberal in his dealings with authors and actors, and 
scrupulously punctual in his payments ; had Providence added 
to these very valuable qualifications for a theatrical manager, 
the talent of a theatrical management, he would have been the 
most perfect specimen of his class in England : but, unhappily, 
he was lamentably deficient in that one rather important article, 
and, what was more unfortunate, he was not in the least aware 
of the deficiency. On the contrary, he prided himself particu- 
larly on his managerial abilities, and was extremely surprised 
at the expression of any doubts, however delicately hinted, of 
the soundness of his judgment or the accuracy of his taste. 
Such a delusion is by no means uncommon. An anecdote or 
two will enable the reader to form a tolerably fair estimate of 
his capacity for the position which had been previously held 
by Macklin, Samuel Foote, and the two Colmans. Fulfilling 
faithfully all his own obligations, he expected, justly enough, 
equal rectitude on the part of others. Observing, one morning 
at the rehearsal of some music, that one of the band was qui- 
escent, he leant over from the pit in which he was standing, 
and touched him on the shoulder — " Why are you not playing, 
sir ? " — "I have twelve bars rest, sir," answered the musician. 
" Rest ! Don't talk to me about rest, sir ! Don't you get 
your salary, sir ? I pay you to play and not to rest, sir ! Rest 
when you've done your work, and not in the middle of it ! " x 

Alexander Lee, who had the musical direction of the Hay- 
market the following season — when my " Green-Eyed Mon- 
ster " was produced, complained to him of the unsatisfactory 
state of the orchestra. " Unsatisfactory ! Pray what fault 
have you to find with my orchestra ? " Every man having 
been engaged by himself he considered the attack personal. 
" Some of the principal members are extremely inefficient." 

" Name one, sir ! " — " Well, there is Mr. the first 

clarionet — really of no use at all." " Mr. ! Do you 

know who he is, sir ? Are you aware that he was for 
more than twenty years first clarionet at His Majesty's Thea- 

1 A similar story is told about old Astley, and there is no reason why both should 
oot be true- u Great wits iump," they say, and it may be equally true of the reverse. 



88 J. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

tre ? " It was quite true, and naturally the poor old gentle- 
man had scarcely any breath left in his body. 

It was one of the absurd ideas of managers in general at 
that period that the stage should never be unoccupied ; and 
Mr. Morris was especially a martinet in this matter. If he 
found no one upon it after the clock had struck eleven at the 
latest, he would immediately cause a rehearsal to be called of 
something, no matter what. He paid his people, and he was 
determined they should earn their money. So the poor stage- 
manager had a pleasant time of it. Tom Dibdin, one of the 
sons of the celebrated nautical poet, and himself the author of 
many popular dramatic pieces, held that responsible position 
at the Haymarket in 1823, and had engaged to write a comedy 
for that theatre. Some weeks having elapsed, and no portion 
of it being forthcoming, Morris attacked him one day as he 
was coming through the box-office. " Mr. Dibdin ! Where is 
the comedy you promised me ? — " My dear sir, what oppor- 
tunity have I for writing ? I am on the stage all day from ten 
or eleven in the morning till four in the afternoon. Run home 
to my dinner, and back again to see the curtain up, and remain 
till it finally falls, long after midnight. I never have any time 
for composition." " No time ! What do you do on Sun- 
days ? " 

Poole and Kenny. 

They were equally witty ; but in Poole's wit there was too 
frequently a mixture of gall, while Kenny's never left a taste 
of bitterness behind it. I appreciated Poole's talent, but I 
loved Kenny. The former was, perhaps, the most humorous 
as well as the most satirical ; the latter more refined and more 
genial. Dining one day where the host became exceedingly 
excited and angry at not being able to find any stuffing in a 
roasted leg of pork, Poole quietly suggested, " Perhaps it is in 
the other leg" Dining in his company on another occasion, 
the conversation turned on the comedy of "The School for 
Scandal." A city knight who was present inquired, " Who 
wrote i The School for Scandal ? ' " Poole, with the greatest 
sang froid) and a glance of infinite contempt, replied, " Miss 



THOMAS HILL, 89 

Chambers, the banker's daughter." " Ah ! indeed," said Sir 
J , " clever girl ! very clever girl ! " Almost immedi- 
ately afterwards, Poole said, ;i Pray, Sir J , are you a 

knight bachelor or a knight errant ? " " Well now — I really 
can't say — I don't think I ever was asked that question. I'll 
make it a point to inquire." It was as good as*a play to watch 
Poole's countenance, but I confess his audacity made me 
shiver. 

Kenny would have had too much respect for the friend he 
was dining with, to have shown up one of his guests so unmer- 
cifully. I do not remember his saying a severe thing of or to 
any one. Even in moments of irritation he would give a grace- 
ful turn to his reproof. One evening when I was playing whist 
with him at his own house, Mrs. Kenny burst suddenly into 
the room, followed by three or four ladies who had been din- 
ing with us, all in fits of laughter at some ludicrous incident 
that had occurred, and startled Kenny (a very nervous man) 
so greatly that he let drop some of his cards, and exclaimed, 
" Is — Heaven broke loose ? " 

Thomas Hill. 

He might have sat to Mrs. Centlivrefor the portrait of Mar- 
plot in " The Busy Body," and if not the original of Poole's 
" Paul Pry," which Poole always denied, though nobody be- 
lieved him, he certainly sat for the portrait of Mr. Hull, in 
Theodore Hook's novel " Gilbert Gurney." He knew, or was 
supposed to know, everything about everybody, and was asked 
to dine everywhere in order that he might tell it. Scandal was, 
of course, the great staple of his conversation ; but in general 
defamatory gossip he might have been equaled by too many. 
His speciality was the accurate information he could impart to 
those whom it concerned, or whom it did not concern, of all the 
petty details of the domestic economy of his friends, the con- 
tents of their wardrobes, their pantries, the number of pots of 
preserves in their store-closets, and of table napkins in tneir 
linen-presses, the dates of their births and marriages, the 
amounts of their tradesmen's bills, and whether they paid 



go J- ROBINSON PLANCH&. 

them weekly or quarterly, or when they could — and he al- 
ways " happened to know," and never failed to inform you 
when they couldn't. He had been " on the Press " in former 
times, and particularly connected with the " Morning Chron- 
icle," and used to drive Mathews crazy by ferreting out his 
whereabouts whenever he left London, though but for a short 
private visit, popping the address in some paper, and causing 
his letters to be sent to houses after he had left them, some- 
times to the obstruction of business, and always to the doubling 
of postage — no small matter in those days.- 

But while so communicative respecting others, he was rigidly 
reticent with regard to himself. Nobody knew when or where 
he was born, or could form the slightest conjecture respecting 
his age or connections. Fawcett and Farley, and others still 
more advanced in years, remembered finding him established 
in London when they entered it as young men, looking much 
the same as he did when I knew him, and no one had ever 
been able to elicit from him the least morsel of evidence that 
would lead them to a probable conclusion. This was the cause 
of much amusing banter amongst his acquaintances, who used 
to ask him questions concerning the Norman Conquest, the 
Spanish Armada, and other ancient historical events, which 
they insisted he must have been contemporary with ; and some 
one, less extravagantly, identified him with a Mr. Thomas Hill, 
who is mentioned by Pepys in his Diary, as giving musical 
parties in the City in the reign of Charles II. He bore all this 
with the greatest equanimity, and was never observed to wince 
but upon two occasions ; once when Theodore Hook declared 
that Tommy had stood godfather to old Mrs. Davenport, which 
was just within the bounds of possibility, and again when 
Charles Dance maintained that it was quite clear Hill could 
not have been, as reported, in the ark with Noah, because the 
animals were all in pairs, and there never was another beast of 
Tommy's kind. 

It was surely his thus being the cause of wit in others that 
occasioned him to be so constantly the guest of many of the 
nost brilliant men of the time ; for he was certainly not witty 



NOVELISTS AND DRAMATISTS. 9 1 

himself, and I will not do them the injustice to believe that the 
extremely small tittle-tattle of which he was the ceaseless re- 
tailer could have had any particular attraction for them, al- 
though it occasionally provoked laughter from its contemptible 
triviality. I never heard any one express the least regard for 
him while living, or regret for him when he died ; for I believe, 
but would by no means affirm, that he is dead, and " kills char- 
acters no longer." 

Novelists and Dramatists. 

Walter Scott was devoted to the theatre, but quite incapable 
of dramatizing his very dramatic novels and romances, and 
gladly contributed his valuable aid to his friend Terry in their 
adaptation as operas, by writing for him many charming char- 
acteristic lyrics. Dickens tried " his 'prentice hand," and never 
repeated the experiment. Thackeray sadly disappointed the 
manager to whom he had promised a comedy, and which, when 
presented, was pronounced unactable. 

Mrs. Charles Gore and Lord Lytton are the only examples, 
so far as I can recollect, of novelists who have obtained anj 
success on the stage ; and it is worthy of remark that they have 
never attempted to dramatize their own most popular novels ; 
but sought in history or the French drama for plots better 
suited to the purpose. Mr. Wilkie Collins appears likely to 
add his name as a third ; but these are quite the exceptions that 
prove the rule, and I am aware of none other ; for Mr. Charles 
Reed was a dramatist before he was a novelist, having written 
for the stage at the commencement of his literary career, in 
conjunction with a master of his art, Tom Taylor. He cannot, 
therefore, be included in the category. On the other hand, I 
should be the last to dispute the right of the novelist to the 
full benefit of his own property, or think he should not be 
"courteousl) entreated" previous to any meddling with it. 
He may have contemplated attempting to dramatize it himself, 
or be desirous to intrust another with the task, or have strong 
objections to its being dramatized at all, as Dickens had to the 
adaptation of his Pickwick' Papers ; and no one with a grain of 



92 J. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

delicacy would disregard such objections. I simply contend 
that, except in special cases such as above mentioned, the 
complaint of injury to the interest of the novelist which has 
been recently so loudly expressed, is utterly without founda- 
tion. And in any case who is the greatest criminal ? The 
adapter, who violates the right of property and the courtesies 
of society, or the manager who rewards him for the act, even if 
he have not, as is the case in nine instances out of ten, sug- 
gested and tempted him to commit it ? Surely if the receiver 
be worse than the thief, the encourager of literary larceny is 
more blamable than the perpetrator. Were there not ready 
markets for stolen goods, depredation would speedily cease to 
be a trade worth following. Were there no theatres at which 
such pieces were acceptable, the least scrupulous dramatist 
would soon find honesty the best policy. 

Revival of "King John." 

In 1823, a casual conversation with Mr. Kemble respecting 
the play of " King John," which he was about to revive for 
Young, who had returned to Covent Garden, led to a step, the 
consequences of which have been of immense importance to 
the English stage — and not the less valuable because, as 
in all other great changes, excess and abuse have occasionally 
entailed misfortune and merited reprobation. I complained to 
Mr. Kemble that a thousand pounds were frequently lavished 
on a Christmas pantomime or an Easter spectacle, while the 
plays of Shakespeare were put upon the stage with make-shift 
scenery, and, at the best, a new dress or two for the principal 
characters. That although his brother John, whose classical 
mind revolted from the barbarisms which even a Garrick had 
tolerated, had abolished the bag-wig of Brutus and the gold- 
laced suit of Macbeth, the alterations made in the costumes of 
the plays founded upon English history in particular, while 
they rendered them more picturesque, added but little to 
their propriety ; the whole series, King Lear included, being 
dressed in habits of the Elizabethan era, the third reign after 
its termination with Henry VIII., and, strictly speaking, very 



REVIVAL OF "KING JOHN." 93 

naccurately representing the costume even of that period. At 
that time I had turned my attention but little to the subject of 
costume, which afterwards became my most absorbing study ; 
but the slightest reflection was sufficient to convince any one 
that some change of fashion must have taken place in the civil 
and military habits of the people of England during several 
hundred years. I remembered our Life Guards in cocked hats, 
powder, and pigtails, and they were at that moment wearing 
helmets and cuirasses. It was not requisite to be an antiquary 
to see the absurdity of the soldiers before Angiers, at the be- 
ginning of the thirteenth century, being clothed precisely the 
same as those fighting at Bosworth at the end of the fifteenth. 
If one style of dress was right, the other must be wrong. Mr. 
Kemble admitted the fact, and perceived the pecuniary advan- 
tage that might result from the experiment. It was decided 
that 1 should make the necessary researches, design the 
dresses, and superintend the production of " King John," 
gratuitously, I beg leave to say ; solely and purely for that 
love of the stage, which has ever induced me to sacrifice all 
personal considerations to what I sincerely believed would 
tend to elevate as well as adorn it. Fortunately I obtained, 
through a mutual friend, an introduction to Doctor, afterwards 
Sir Samuel Meyrick, who had just published his elaborate and 
valuable work, " A Critical Inquiry into Ancient Arms and 
Armor," and was forming that magnificent and instructive col 
lection now exhibiting at South Kensington. How little did 
I dream at that time that I should ever be called on to arrange 
it twice for public exhibition ! — at Manchester, in 1857, and 
at South Kensington, in 1868. He entered most warmly and 
kindly into my views, pointed out to me the best authorities, 
and gave me a letter of introduction to Mr. Francis Douce, 
the eminent antiquary, from whom also I met with the most 
cordial reception. 

This gentleman had assisted Mr. John Kemble when he in- 
troduced several alterations in the costume of Shakespeare's 
plays, particularly those founded on Roman history ; for which 
latter, however, he drew his materials from the columns and 



94 7 ROBINSON planch£. 

arches of the emperors, and not from contemporaneous repub- 
lican authorities. When urged to do so, and to " reform it 
altogether," he exclaimed to Mr. Douce, in a tone almost of 
horror. " Why, if I did, sir, they would call me an antiquary." 
" And this to me, sir ! " said the dear old man, when he told 
me of this circumstance, " to me, who flattered myself I tvas 
an antiquary." Mr. Douce speedily discovered that, so fai 
from having any objection to incur the risk of such a reproach, 
it was my ambition to deserve the appellation, and most liber- 
ally placed the whole of his invaluable collection of illuminated 
MSS. (now in the Bodleian Library, to which he bequeathed 
them) at my disposal. He paid me also the great compliment 
of lending me his fine copy of Strutt's " Dress and Habits of 
the People of England," colored expressly for him by its 
author. " I will lend you books, sir, because you love them 
and will take care of them ; " I think he added, " and will 
return them" — a more uncommon virtue to possess than the 
two former. At any rate, I can honestly say that I justified 
his confidence. Dr. Meyrick was equally kind and of great 
assistance to me, for of armor our artists and actors in 
those days knew even less than of civil costume. In the 
theatre, however, my innovations were regarded with dis- 
trust and jealousy. Mr. Fawcett, the stage-manager, con- 
sidered his dignity offended by the production of the play 
being placed under my direction. He did not speak to me, 
except when obliged by business, for, I think, nearly three 
years ; but I lived it down, and remained very good friends 
with that excellent actor to the day of his death. Mr. 
Farley — dear old Charles Farley — also took huff. He was 
the recognized purveyor and director of spectacle, and 
dreaded "the dimming of his shining star." The expenditure 
of a few hundred pounds on any drama, except an Easter 
piece or a Christmas pantomime, was not to be tolerated. 
" Besides," he piteously exclaimed, " if Shakespeare is to be 
produced with such splendor and attention to costume, what 
am I to do for the holidays ? " He was not quite so openly 
rude to me as Fawcett, but he didn't like me a bit the better 



REVIVAL OF "KING JOHN:' 95 

then, though he also came round in the end, and was one of 
the warmest admirers of my Easter pieces. Never shall I for- 
get the dismay of some of the performers when they looked 
upon the flat-topped chapeaux de fer {fer blanc, I confess) ol the 
1 2th century, which they irreverently stigmatized as stewpans ! 
Nothing but. the fact that the classical features of a Kemble 
were to be surmounted by a precisely similar abomination 
would, I think, have induced one of the rebellious barons to 
have appeared in it. They had no faith in me, and sulkily as- 
sumed their new and strange habiliments, in the full belief 
that they should be roared at by the audience. They were 
roared at ; but in a much more agreeable way than they had 
contemplated. When the curtain rose and discovered King 
John dressed as his effigy appears in Worcester Cathedral, 
surrounded by his barons sheathed in mail, with cylindrical 
helmets and correct armorial shields, and his courtiers in the 
long tunics and mantles of the 13th century, there was a roar 
of approbation, accompanied by four distinct rounds of ap- 
plause, so general and so hearty, that the actors were aston- 
ished, and I felt amply rewarded for all the trouble, anxiety, 
and annoyance I had experienced during my labors. Re- 
ceipts of from ^400 to ,£600 nightly soon reimbursed the 
management for the expense of the production, and a com- 
plete reformation of dramatic costume became from that mo- 
ment inevitable upon the English stage. 

That I was the original cause of this movement is certain. 
That without fee or reward, and in defiance of every obstacle 
that could be thrown in my path by rooted prejudice and 
hostile interest, I succeeded in the object I had honestly at 
heart, I am proud to declare ; but if propriety be pushed to 
extravagance, if what should be mere accessories are occasion- 
ally elevated by short-sighted managers into the principal 
features of their productions, I am not answerable for then 
suicidal folly. 

One ludicrous result I must needs chronicle. A melodrama, 
quasi historical, was announced for production at the Coburg 
Theatre, now known as the "Victoria/' under the title of 



g6 7. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

" William the Conqueror, or the Battle of Hastings." In imi- 
tation of the Covent Garden playbill, a long and imposing 
(very imposing in this instance) list of authorities was quoted 
for the new dresses and decorations, most of them being those 
general works on costume and armor which I had enumerated 
in the announcement of " King John." Curious to observe the 
effect of such a representation on a transpontine public, I 
obtained a private box, and was seated in it long before the 
rising of the curtain. The house was crammed to the ceiling ; 
and in the very centre of the pit, a most conspicuous object 
amongst the dingy denizens of the New Cut and St. George's 
Fields, who filled it to suffocation, arose the snow-white pow- 
dered head of the learned and highly respected Dr. Coombe, 
the Keeper of the Medals at the British Museum, who, at- 
tracted as I had been by the "promissory note " of prepara- 
tion, had unfortunately neglected to provide himself, as I had 
done, with a " coin of vantage " from whence he could witness 
the performance in ease and comfort, without peril to his best 
black suit and immaculate neckcloth. There was no possibil- 
ity of extricating him from the spot in which he was wedged ; 
and I could only hope, therefore, that the brilliancy of the 
spectacle would atone for the discomfort of his position. 

The hepe was fallacious. I will not attempt to describe 
dresses that were indescribable, even by the indefinite term 
of conventional, and in which I could not detect the faintest 
resemblance to any portrayed in the works so unblushingly 
cited ; but the banners of the rival hosts had obviously been 
painted from authorities which would have been admitted in- 
disputable by the whole College of Heralds. Armorial bea r - 
ings, it is true, were not known in the days of the Conqueror, 
but overlooking that slight anachronism, and the rather im- 
portant fact that the arms were not even those borne by the 
direct descendants of the contending chieftains, the coats, 
crests, and supporters displayed were heraldically correct, and 
undeniably those of departed English worthies, nobk and 
gentle, for they were nothing less than the funeral hatchments 
of some score of lords, ladies, baronets, and members of par- 



JAMES WALLACK IN " THE BRIGAND." 97 

liament, which having hung for the usual period on the walls 
of their family mansions, had reverted to the undertaker, and 
been "furnished" by him, for a consideration, to the liberal 
and enterprising lessee of " the Coburg." There they were, 
and no mistake. Simply taken out of their frames, and with- 
out any alteration of the well-known lozenge form, hoisted on 
poles, some surmounted by cherubims, others by skulls with 
crossbones. A wicked wag might have managed, by the ex- 
ercise of a little ingenuity, to have appropriated the " hatch- 
ments " to the principal personages. The ambitious Norman 
duke, who aspired to a kingly crown, might have been pre- 
ceded by one which bore for motto, " Spero Meliora." A 
hint might have been conveyed to the bellicose Bishop of Bay- 
eux by another, with " In Ccelo quies ; " and the royal Saxon 
standard might have drooped over the prostrate Harold, with 
" Requiescat in pace." I can scarcely hope to be believed 
when I assert that this ridiculous and disgraceful exhibition 
excited neither shouts of derision nor symptoms of disgust 
amongst the general audience. I certainly cannot say that the 
piece was received with enthusiasm ; but it escaped the con- 
dign punishment which its absurdity and bad taste richly de- 
served. 

James Wallack in "The Brigand." 

The production of " Der Vampyr " was followed by that of 
" The Brigand " at Drury Lane, in which that great melo- 
dramatic favorite, James Wallack, increased his popularity so 
immensely by his performance of the hero, " Alessandro Maz- 
zaroni," that the public would scarcely receive him in Tragedy 
or Comedy, the leading parts in which he was ambitious of 
sustaining. This unlooked-for consequence so nettled him, 

that he has frequently said to me, quite savagely, ' D n 

your " Brigand," sir ! It has been the ruin of me.' Never- 
theless, he was not best pleased with his brother Henry, a 
very inferior actor, anticipating him in the character all over 
the country, and advertising himself as " Mr. Wallack of the 

7 



98 J. ROBINSON PLANCH&. 

Theatre Royal, Drury Lane," omitting the distinguishing bap- 
tismal appellation. 

In this melodrama I introduced three tableaux from East- 
lake's well-known pictures, " An Italian Brigand Chief repos- 
ing," " The Wife of a Brigand Chief watching the result of a 
Battle," and " The Dying Brigand," engravings of which had 
been just published by Messrs. Moon, Boys, & Graves, and 
were in all the printshop windows. They were very effective, 
and led to the adoption of this attractive feature in several 
subsequent dramas, Douglas Jerrold's " Rent Day," founded 
on Wilkie's celebrated picture, in particular. Perhaps one of 
the most unexpected hits in the piece was the extraordinary 
success of the song, " Gentle Zitella," which I wrote for Wal- 
lack to sing, who was no singer. Assisted by the situation, 
he got through it very creditably, and it told well with the 
audience ; but the extraordinary part of the business was the 
enormous popularity of the song out of the theatre. The late 
Mr. Chappell, of New Bond Street, who was at that moment 
in treaty for the purchase of the business of Mr. Latour, had 
agreed to give, as I was credibly informed, ^500 more for it 
on the strength of the sale of that song alone, which brought 
him upwards of ,£1,000 the first year, and continued for many 
to produce a considerable income. 

By this bit of good fortune I profited not one shilling. Mr. 
T. Cooke received £25 for his arrangement of the air (which 
was mine as well as the words), and some further benefit in 
the exchange of a piano ; but when, on hearing of the won- 
derful sale of the song, I appealed to Mr. Latour for some rec- 
ognition, however trifling, of my property in the work, he re- 
ferred me to Mr. Chappell, to whom he had sold the business, 
and who would reap all the profits of the song ; and on apply- 
ing to Mr. Chappell, he assured me that Mr. Latour had ex- 
acted so large a sum from him in consideration of the value of 
that song, that he really could not afford to pay anything more 
lor it. He had bought it of Mr. Latour, and to Mr. Latour I 
must look for remuneration. 



MUSICAL COPYRIGHTS. 99 

Musical Copyrights. 

This set me a-thinking. It had been a custom of long 
standing for an author to allow the composer of his opera to 
publish the words with the music. They were not considered 
of any value, and in a literary point of view there might, in too 
many instances, have been some truth in the assertion. Still, 
without the words, however poor they might be, the music of 
a new opera could not be published. That fact never ap- 
peared to have occurred to any one, or, if it had, no author had 
thought it worth his while to moot the question. In those 
days successful dramas had a certain sale, and there were act- 
ually booksellers who would give a very fair price for a new 
play, and a much larger one for an opera, as the sale of the 
book of the songs in the house would alone net a sufficient 
sum to pay the author and the expenses of printing at the 
least, without reckoning the money taken over the counter for 
the complete libretto. But those days were fast disappearing, 
and booksellers were becoming chary of purchasing the copy- 
rights of any dramatic pieces whatever, unless at such low 
prices that they were able to publish them in a small size at 
sixpence or a shilling, instead of, as formerly, in 8vo, at three 
or five shillings. The lyrical drama also, assuming gradually 
a more strictly operatic form, "the book of the songs " no 
txigzt consisted of a few ballads and duets, a glee and two or 
three choruses. It contained the greater part of the whole 
piece, and every word of it was printed and published by the 
music-seller, without the least compensation to the bookseller 
who had purchased the copyright of the author. Mr. Miller, 
Mr. Dolby, and other theatrical booksellers, had paid me fifty, 
sixty, and a hundred pounds for copyrights, but such offers 
were "getting few by degrees and beautifully less." Mean- 
while, the music-publishers were making large fortunes by the 
sale of songs for the words of which they had not paid six- 
pence. The case of " Gentle Zitella," though the most fla- 
grant, was by no means the first. The ballad of " Rise, gentle 
Moon," in " Charles Xllth," had been published by the com- 



IOO y. ROBlNSCy PLANCH&. 

poser as a matter of course, and had commanded an extensive 
sale without my receiving the slightest consideration for it. I 
determined to be the victim of " tyrant custom " no longer, 
and told George Rodwell, who was just about to publish the 
vocal pieces of my operetta, " The Mason of Buda," of which 
he had arranged the music, that I should expect some pay- 
ment, I cared not about the amount, provided it was a suffi- 
cient recognition of my right as author of the libretto. 

My protest was contemptuously disregarded, and the music 
was published in defiance of it. I walked into the city, not to 
my lawyer, but to Mr. Cumberland, who was then publishing 
his " Theatre," explained to him the case, and sold and as- 
signed to him, in due form, all my rights and interests, vested 
and contingent, in the operetta of " The Mason of Buda." 

On my return home. I informed Messrs. D'Almaine & Co. of 
the step I had taken, and that, as they had declined to deal 
with me, they would now have to deal with Mr. Cumberland. 
My letter was speedily followed by one from Mr. Cumberland's 
solicitor, prohibiting the further sale of the music, and demand- 
ing an account. How they compromised matters with Cumber- 
land, I forget, if I ever knew, but I recollect being warmly 
thanked by my old acquaintance FitzBall, to whom D'Almaine 
had sent in a great pucker, and paid him for a host of things 
for which otherwise he would not have received a farthing ; 
and from that time I have been fairly paid by the music-pub- 
lishers for the right of printing the words of my operas, with- 
out injury to the composers, who commanded the same prices 
as they did previously. I had the gratification also of feeling 
in this case, as well as in that of the Dramatic Authors' Act, 
that I was not simply struggling for my own benefit, but for 
that of all my extremely ill-treated brethren, whose claims were 
invariably the last considered by managers or publishers. 

Stephen Price. 

Mr. Price was not a highly educated man, nor the possessor 
of a very refined taste ; but he was a straightforward, sensible 
man of business, thoroughly understood the practical working 



EHE BEEF-STEAK CLUB, \o\ 

of a theatre, having been many years the manager of one of the 
principal theatres in New York. He had no favorites but such 
as experience proved to him were favorites of the public ; no 
prejudices to warp his judgment, and was perfectly free from 
that common and fatal weakness of managers — the encourage- 
ment of talebearers and mischief-makers. He had his likings 
and his dislikings, as other men ; but he never suffered them 
to bias him in matters of business, never allowed private feel- 
ing to influence his conduct to a performer, or affect the inter- 
est of the public. At the same time he ruled with a strong 
hand, and could neither be coaxed nor coerced into taking any 
step which his natural shrewdness warned him might be haz- 
ardous. An eminent tragedian once suggested to him the 
omission of Locke's music in the tragedy of " Macbeth," as it 
was an interpolation, the words sung to it being taken from 
Middleton's " Witch." Price listened attentively to his argu- 
ments, and after a few minutes of apparent consideration, said, 
" Well, look here, sir, I don't think it would do to omit the 
music ; but, if you think it would be an improvement, I've no 
objection to leave out the Macbeth." 

Price was very fond of a rubber, and not more irritable than 
whist-players in general, when a partner makes a mistake. A 
gentleman, apologizing for an inadvertence by saying, " I beg 
your pardon, Mr. Price, I thought the queen was out," he re- 
plied, " I'll bet you five pounds, sir, you didn't think any such 
thing." 

The Beef-steak Club. 

A Beef-steak Club had been established at Drury Lane, in 
1826, in imitation of the original at the English Opera House. 
The meetings took place in the painting room of the theatre, a 
portion of which was partitioned off by scenery. The lessee 
for the time being was the president, and the treasurer of the 
theatre (" Billy Dunn," as he was familiarly called — a great 
character) acted in the same capacity, as well as secretary, for 
ihe club, having the assistance of a deputy in the collection oi 
the subscriptions, fines, etc., who was Kean's friend John 
Hughes. I was. not a member of the club, but occasionally 



102 /. ROB/A SON PLANCHE. 

dined with it as a guest. There was muclj good fun, is nay 
be imagined, at these dinners, and not a little practical joking. 
A rather strong example of the latter may be worth recording. 
By one of the rules of the club the fine of half a crown was 
imposed upon all members using certain expressions or doing 
certain things most natural and inoffensive, and which, from 
general and constant custom, it was almost impossible to avoid. 
One evening the company appeared strangely oblivious or per- 
tinaciously defiant of their regulation. Everybody was fined 
over and over again, and little Jack Hughes was kept constantly 
on his legs during the dinner, rushing from one end of the 
table to another to collect the half-crowns of the unwary or 
willful offenders. Shortly after the cloth was drawn, the mes- 
senger of the theatre was sent up by the stage-doorkeeper, to 
cell Mr. Hughes a gentleman wished to speak with him directly 
on important business. Hughes followed the messenger down 
to the hall, and was ushered into the little room on the right of 
the entrance, used sometimes as a manager's room, and therein 

found L , a Bow Street officer, who was perfectly well 

known to him. On inquiring the object of his visit, the officer 
gravely replied that he was extremely sorry to say, having 
known and respected Mr. Hughes for several years, that an 
information had been laid against him for the uttering of base 
coin, and that a warrant had been issued, which it was his 
painful duty to be the bearer of. Poor little Hughes, con- 
scious of his innocence, was nevertheless horror-struck at the 
intelligence, and, while indignantly repudiating the charge, im- 
plored the officer not to take him into custody, pledging his 
honor that he would attend at Bow Street the next morning, 
and meet any accusation that could be brought against him. 
The officer said it would be at his own peril if he acceded to 
such a proposition ; but having known Mr. Hughes so long, 
and feeling confident there must be some mistake, he would 
run the risk, provided Mr. Hughes would not object to his 
searching him on the spot. Hughes assented eagerly, little 
thinking what would follow. In a few minutes the officer was 
in possession of between two and three do-sen of bad half- 



BILLY DUNN, IO3 

crowns, which Jack had unsuspiciously stuffed into his pockets 
as fast as he could take them, without examination. In vain 
did he offer the easy explanation, and request the officer to go 
up-stairs with him, or to send for Dunn to corroborate his 
statement. Under such suspicious circumstances, he was told, 
he must be locked up for the night, and send for the witnesses 
in the morning. At this point, however, it was considered that 
the joke had been carried far enough ; and Dunn, the chief 
conspirator, who had been on the watch, made his appearance 
and relieved his half-distracted deputy from apprehension of 
any description. He was a good-natured little fellow, and gen- 
erously forgave the perpetrators the trick they had played 
him, which was rather beyond a joke, and even extended his 
clemency to the Bow Street officer, whose conduct in lending 
himself to the imposition was highly reprehensible, and, if re- 
ported, would have been severely visited. 

Billy Dunn. 

He was a dry fellow, that Billy Dunn, a great character, as I 
have already observed. During the many years he was treas- 
urer of Drury Lane I don't suppose he once witnessed a per- 
formance ; but regularly after the curtain had fallen on a new 
piece, it mattered not of what description, he would let himself 
through with his pass-key from the front of the house, as if he 
had sat it out, and on being asked his opinion, invariably an- 
swer, after a long pause and a proportionate pinch of snuff, 
" Wants cutting." Nine times out of ten he was right, and if 
wrong it would have been difficult to prove that he was so, as 
he never entered into any discussion of the subject. The 
trouble of extracting a direct reply from him at any time or 
concerning anything, was remarkable. I called one morning 
at the theatre, on my way to the city, to ask him a question 
about writing orders on some particular night. I was told he 
was in the treasury, and accordingly ran up to it. He was 
alone at his desk, counting checks. " Would there be any 
objection, Dunn, to my sending a friend or two to the boxes 
on such a night ? " He looked at me, but made no answer 



104 7- ROBINSON PLANCH A. 

and continued to count his checks. I waited patiently till he 
had finished and replaced them in the bags. Still no an- 
swer. He turned to his books. I waited perhaps five more 
minutes, and then, without repeating my inquiry, or speaking 
another word, walked quietly out of the room and went about 
my other business. Returning between two and three in the 
afternoon, I ascertained from the hall-keeper that Mr. Dunn 
was still in the theatre. I mounted the stairs again, entered 
the treasury, and found him, as before, alone. I stood per- 
fectly silent while he looked at me and took the customary 
pinch of snuff, after which he drawled out, "No, I should 
think not ; " some four hours having elapsed since I asked 
him the question. 

The Garrick. 

It was a vastly pleasant club, receiving constant additions 
of the most desirable members. Since the days of " Will's " 
and " Button's," I question if such an assemblage as could 
be daily met with there, between four and six in the after- 
noon, had ever been seen in a coffee-room. James Smith, 
Poole, and Charles Mathews the elder, were original members. 
The Rev. Richard Harris Barham (Tom Ingoldsby), Theodore 
Hook, Thackeray, Charles Dickens, and a host of memorable 
names, were gradually added to the list ; and the club being 
formed upon the principle that membership was a sufficient 
introduction, the social intercourse between men of all ranks 
was an attractive feature in " The Garrick," distinguishing it 
agreeably from the generality of such establishments, wherein, 
as a friend of mine observed of one of the most celebrated, 
" it was as much as your life was worth to ask a stranger to 
ooke the fire." 

Amongst the earlier members was a very amiable and ac- 
complished gentleman, who, perfectly sane upon all other 
topics, had what the Scotch call "a bee in his bonnet " on the 
subject of the " Millennium." If this were touched upon he 
would start up from his chair, pace the room agitatedly, and 
declaim in the most vehement manner on the approach of that 



THEODORE HOOK. 105 

momentous epoch. One day, when he was more than ordina- 
rily excited, he assured us that the world would be at an end 
within three years from that date. Hook looked up from his 

newspaper, and said, " Come, L , if you are inclined to 

back your opinion, give me five pounds now, and I will under- 
take to pay you fifty if it occurs." L was not quite mad 

enough to close with the whimsical offer. 

Theodore Hook. 

I had often met Hook in society without being introduced to 
him ; but our acquaintance and intimacy dated simultaneously 
from the evening of a dinner at Horace Twiss's in Park Place, 
St. James's, the precise period of which has escaped me, but 
not the circumstances connected with it. It was a very merry 
party. Mr. John Murray (the great Murray of Albemarle 
Street), James Smith, and two or three others, remained till 
very late in the dining-room, some of us singing and giving 
imitations. Hook being pressed to sing another of his wonder- 
ful extemporary songs, consented, with a declaration that the 
subject should be John Murray. Murray objected vehemently, 
and a ludicrous contention took place, during which Hook 
dodged him round the table, placing chairs in his path, which 
was sufficiently devious without them, and singing all the while 
a sort of recitative, of which I remember only the commence- 
ment : — 

*' My friend, John Murray, I see has arrived at the head of the table, 
And the wonder is, at this time of night, that John Murray should be able. 
He's an excellent hand at a dinner, and not a bad one at a lunch, 
But the devil of John Murray is that he never will pass the punch." 

It was daybreak — broad daylight, in fact, before we sepa- 
rated. I had given an imitation of Edmund Kean and Holland, 
in Mathurin's tragedy of " Bertram," which had amused Hook ; 
and, as we were getting our hats, he asked me where I lived. 
On my answering " At Brompton," he said, " Brompton ! — 
why that's in my way home — I live at Fulham. Jump into my 
cabriolet, and I will set you down." The sun of a fine summer 
morning was rising as we passed Hyde Park Corner. " I have 



I06 y. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

been very ill," said Hook, "for some time, and my doctors told 
me never to be out of doors after dark, as the night air was the 
worst thing for me. I have taken their advice. I drive into 
town at four o'clock every afternoon, dine at ' Crockford's,' or 
wherever I may be invited, and never go home till this time in 
the morning. I have not breathed the night air for the last 
two months." From that day to the latest of his life, Hook's 
attachment to me was so remarkable, that, knowing his irre- 
sistible passion for hoaxing and practical jokes of all descrip- 
tions, I was at first a little alarmed occasionally at the peculiar 
and marked attention he paid to me, accompanied as it was by 
respect, which from one of his age and celebrity was as singu- 
lar as, if sincere, it was flattering. That it was sincere I had 
many gratifying proofs, some of which I still treasure, in his 
handwriting. His fame as an improvisatore is a matter of 
social history ; but I cannot refrain from giving one instance 
of his powers which is as creditable to his heart as his head. 
There had been a large party at the house of some mutual 
friends of ours and Hook's neighbors at Fulham. It was late, 
but many still remained, and before separating another song 
was requested of him. He was weary, and really suffering, 
but good-naturedly consented on condition that somebody 
would suggest a subject. No one volunteering, he said, " Well, 
I think the most proper subject at this hour would be ' Good- 
night.' " And accordingly he sat down to the piano, and sang 
several verses, each ending with " Good-night," composed with 
his usual facility, but lacking the fun and brilliancy which had 
characterized his former effusions. Some oddity of expression, 
however, in the middle of one of his verses, elicited a ringing 
laugh from a fine handsome boy, son of Captain the Hon. 
Montague Stopford, who was staying with his parents in the 
house, and who had planted himself close to the piano. Hook 
stopped short, looked at him admiringly for an instant, then, 
completing the verse, added with an intensity of expression I 
"an never forget, — 

" You laugh ! and you are quite right, 
For yours is the dawn of the morning, 
And God send you a good-night ! " 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. \Oj 

The effect was electrical, and brought tears into the eyes of 
more than one of the company, while cheer upon cheer arose 
in recognition of that charming and touching burst of feeling. 

Other versions of this remarkable incident are in print, but 
I have confidence in the accuracy of my own, for one particular 
reason. Supposing that I had imperfectly heard the words, I 
could not have mistaken the emphasis in their utterance, and 
the fervor with which God's blessing was invoked upon that 
beautiful and joyous boy, could not by any possibility have ac- 
companied such words as a For me, is the solemn good-night," 
nor the applause that followed, loud and long, been caused by 
so melancholy a farewell. I know the tears that filled my eyes 
were not those of sorrow, but of pleasurable emotion. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

My acquaintance with Thackeray commenced some time be- 
fore he joined " The Garrick," and while I was the guest of 
his cousin, Captain Thomas James Thackeray, in the Rue du 
Faubourg St. Honore, during one of my many visits to Paris. 
He was at that time a slim young man, rather taciturn, and not 
displaying any particular love or talent for literature. Draw- 
ing appeared to be his favorite amusement ; and he often sat 
by my side while I was reading, or writing, covering any scrap 
of paper lying about with the most spirited sketches and amus- 
ing caricatures. I have one of Charles IX. firing at the Hu- 
guenots out of the windows of the Louvre, which he dashed 
off in a few minutes beside me on the blank portion of the 
yellow paper cover of a French drama. A member of " The 
Garrick," who was specially unpopular with the majority of the 
members, was literally drawn out of the club by Thackeray. 
His figure, being very peculiar, was sketched in pen and ink by 
his implacable persecutor. On every pad on the writing-tables, 
or whatever paper he could venture to appropriate, he repre- 
sented him in the most ridiculous and derogatory situation that 
could be imagined, always with his back towards you : but 
unmistakable. His victim, it must be admitted, bore this des- 
ecration of his " lively effigies " with great equanimity for a 



108 J. ROBINSON PLANCH&. 

considerable period ; but at length, one very strong — perhaps 
too strong — example of the artist's graphic and satirical abil- 
ities, combined with the conviction that he was generally 
objectionable, induced him to retire from the club, and leave 
the pungent pen of Michael Angelo Titmarsh to punish more 
serious offenders than bores and toadies. 

James Smith. 

Of my old friend James Smith I have many gratifying rec- 
ollections ; but they are too purely personal for introduction 
in these pages. I may be allowed, however, to testify, per- 
haps, to the utter absence of that desire to " play first fiddle,'' 
which is too often remarkable in celebrities of his description. 
He was the heartiest laugher at another's joke, and generally 
prefaced his own by the question of, " Have you heard what a 
man said when," etc. On hearing a song of mine which I had 
written in humble imitation of his style, he good-naturedly and 
gracefully said, — 

" Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
Or both divide the crown." 

This song I shall take the liberty of introducing here, as it has 
never been printed in its original form, but only as altered 
for Charles Mathews to sing in my classical extravaganza, 
" Theseus and Ariadne," and because some verses, entitled 
" A Medley, for a Young Lady's Album," written about a year 
later by Barham, appear to have been suggested by it, some 
few lines being actually identical. 

A DREAM. 
I'm quite in a flutter, 
I scarcely can utter 
The words to my tongue that come dancing — 

come dancing. 
I've had such a dream, 
That I'm sure it must seem 
To incredulous ears like romancing — 

romancing. 
There can be no question 
'Twas sheer indigestion, 



JAMES SMITH. 109 

Occasioned by supping on chine, Sir — 

on chine, Sir ; 
But if such vagaries 
Portend their contraries, 
Pray what's the contrary of mine, Sir ? — 

of mine, Sir? 
I dreamed I was walking 
With Homer, and talking 
The very best Greek I was able — 

was able, 
When Lord Liverpool, he 
Came in very coolly, 
And danced a Scotch jig on the table — 

the table. 
Then Hannibal rising, 
Declared 'twas surprising 
That gentlemen couldn't sit quiet — 

sit quiet, 
And sent his attorney 
For Sir Richard Birney 1 
To hasten and put down the riot — 

the riot. 
He came, and found Cato 
At cribbage with Plato, 
And Washington playing the fiddle — 

the fiddle ; 
Snatched a dirk in the dark 
From the ex- Sheriff Park- 
ins, 2 and ran Peter Moore 3 through the middle — 

the middle. 
Then Dido turned paler, 
And looked at John Taylor, 4 
Who sat by her side like a mummy — 

a mummy, 
But Mr. MacAdam 5 
Said, Really dear Madam, 
I never play whist with a dummy — 
a dummy. 
1 Chief Magistrate at Bow Street. 3 A civic dignitary of that day 

1 An unpopular member of the Drury Lane Committee. 
* Editor of the Sun & The Colossus of Roads 



I IO 7 ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

I'm rather perplext 

To say what I saw next, 

But I think it was Poniatowski — 

atowski, 
Came driving Queen Sheba, 
With Reginald Heber, 1 
Through Portugal Place, in a drosky — 

a drosky. 
When Nebuchanazar, 
In his witty way, Sir, 
Observed it was very cold weather — 

cold weather, 
And flinging his jasey 
At Prince Esterhazy, 
They both began waltzing together — 

together. 
The news next was spread 
That Pope Pius was dead, 
And Elliston, fearing the worst, Sir — 

the worst, Sir. 
Proclaimed, in a hurry, 
Himself at " the Surrey," 
As Pope Robert William the First, Sir — 

the First, Sir, 
He hanged Master Burke, 2 
And alarmed the Grand Turk, 
By a bull of excommunication — 

nication, 
And cutting the rake, 
For his family's sake, 
Vowed he'd walk in his own coronation — 

ronation. 
But Mr. O'Connell, 
iEneas McDonell, 

And two or three more who were Roman <— 
were Roman, 



1 The Rev. Reginald Heber, of Bibliographical celebrity 
1 A second " young Roscius." 



JAMES SMITH. Ill 

Came o'er in a jiffy, 
And swore by the Liffey, 
The Pope should be Cobbett, or no man- 
or no man. 
Poor Robert, they stripped him, 
And in the Thames dipped him, 
And thought they were rid of the pest, Sir — 

the pest, Sir, 
When pop — up he rose, 
In a new suit of clothes, 
With his hair neatly powdered and drest, Sir — 

and drest, Sir. 
To laugh I began, 
When a good-looking man, 
With a handsome bald head and a cane, Sir, — 

a cane, Sir, 
Came and hit me a whack 
On the broad of my back, 
Saying, What ! you are at it again, Sir — 

again, Sir ! " * 
I woke in a fright, 
And I found it was light, 
By my bed-side, tea, toast, eggs, and cresses — 

and cresses, 
And down on the floor, 
From a shelf o'er the door, 
Had fallen — " Rejected Addresses " — 
" Addresses ! " 

His brother Horace lived at Brighton, and of him I knew 
less, but quite enough to admire his talent and respect his 
character ; and I have the pleasure 'still to include amongst 
my friends his two surviving and accomplished daughters. 

1 Alluding to another song, " Farewell to the Lilies and Roses, ' ; previously written 
and afterwards published at Hook's request in Colburn's New Monthly Magazine* 
In a note to Mrs. Orger, dated Saturday, 30th May (1835), Smith refers to it thus: 
11 On Thursday last there was a great supper at Twiss's, at which I could not attend. 
Twiss addressed the company, stating that Mr. James Smith had just arrived, and 
would favor the company with a song. Whereupon Planche started off with one in 
mitation of me, to the great gratification of a candid and enlightened audience." 



112 £ ROBINSON PLANCHk. 

Sir Henry Webb. 
I will mention here, a very amusing member of the club in 
early days, with whom I was on terms of great intimacy as 
long as he remained in England — Sir Henry Webb, a baronet, 
and formerly in the Life Guards. He was a man of refined 
taste, perfect manners, and great good-nature, and possessed 
the peculiarly happy art of saying agreeable things without 
forfeiting the independence of his judgment, or incurring the 
reproach of insincerity. There was a vein of humor also in 
his observations, of the most original and whimsical descrip- 
tion. He was passionately fond of music, and a great patron 
of Eliason, who first started the " Promenade Concerts " in 
London, which were afterwards made so popular by Jullien. 
On my asking him how his protege was going on, he replied, 
" He is going on so well that he will carry everything before 
him, or " — after a pause and a pinch of snuff — " he will 
leave nothing behind him — which is precisely the same 
thing." As of course it is ; and the musician verified the pre- 
diction ; for he omitted leaving behind him even the violin 
(a real Cremona) which he had pledged to Mr. Frederick Gye 
for money advanced to him. 

Malibran. 

As a privilege of my office, I had a small private box in the 
proscenium of the theatre, which I had the pleasure of fre- 
quently placing at the disposal of Madame Malibran Garcia, 
who delighted in the rich humor of John Reeve — certainly, 
when he was sober or as nearly so as could be expected — one 
of the finest low comedians on the stage at that, or perhaps 
any other period. Often when I arrived at the theatre, I was 
told, " Madame Malibran is in your box, sir ; " for almost 
every evening she was disengaged she would run down on the 
chance of finding a place in it. Our mere bowing acquaint- 
ance rapidly ripened into intimacy ; and some of the most en- 
joyable evenings of my life were passed in the society of that 
brilliant and fascinating woman. One, in particular, can never 



MALIBRAN. II3 

be forgotten. I had dined with Bunn at Eagle Lodge, Bromp- 
ton, the only other guests being Malibran, De Beriot, and 
Thalberg. After dinner, the latter sat down to the piano and 
extemporized several charming melodies, to which Malibran 
sang — not words, of course, but notes — while De Beriot 
played an accompaniment on the violin. Subsequently to 
these enchanting " Lieder ohne Worte," De Beriot gave us an 
amusing description of the performance he had once witnessed 
of a woman who had danced on the tight-rope to her own 
playing of the French horn. Fastening a bunch of keys to 
the strings of his violin, he chalked a line on the carpet, and 
went through all the evolutions of a rope-dancer, imitating the 
French horn on his own instrument to perfection. One " tour 
de force " suggested another — the night rapidly and unheed- 
edly passed, and a lovely summer morning saw us seated eat- 
ing mulberries in the garden, under a fine old tree that was 
the pride of it. 

At Madame Malibran's request, I translated an operetta for 
her, the music by Chelard, which was performed at Drury 
Lane, June 4th, 1833, under the title of "The Students of 
Jena ; " and when she was discontented with the effusions of 
" the Poet Bunn," as " Punch " delighted to call him, she 
would send me her music, superscribed, " Betterer words 
here." Her early death was a fatal loss to English opera : 
her genius imparting a vitality to the most mediocre compo- 
sitions ; and upon our stage it is improbable that we shall 
ever see her like again. I transcribe here her letter to Bunn 
on the subject of the aforesaid opera, being the only relic of 
her handwriting I possess : — 

" Mr. Planche has just been reading to me his delightful little opera, 
and I think, sans meilleur avis, nothing can be better ; therefore I am 
satisfied compleiement ; but that is only harlequin's marriage, if my 
advice stands single, and is not ratified by yours. 

" I remain, 

" Your Columbine, 

"Malibran." - 
8 



114 7 ROBINSON "LAXCHE. 

Rogers and Luttrell. 

It was at the table of the Duchess-Countess of Suther- 
land that I had the gratification of meeting Mr. Samuel Rog- 
ers ("that anomalous personage, a rich poet," as Leigh Hunt 
used to call him), and that brilliant conversationalist, Mr. Lut- 
trell, with both of whom I remained on terms of the greatest 
friendship to the end of their lives. The latter was at that 
period my near neighbor, residing in Brompton Square ; and 
shortly after our dining together in Hamilton Place, I asked 
Mr. Rogers, with whom I had breakfasted the following morn- 
ing, to favor Mrs. Planche and myself by breakfasting with us 
in Brompton Crescent. I had just previously been subpoe- 
naed as a witness in the case of Jerrold v. Morris, which was 
tried in the Court of Common Pleas ; and instead of writing 
a note to Mr. Luttrell, to ask him to meet Mr. Rogers, I sent 
him over-night the subpoena altered to suit the circumstances, 
with which in his hand he punctually made his appearance at 
ten in the morning. These two celebrated men, without whom 
few dinner parties in high life were considered complete, were 
very differently gifted. Rogers had an inexhaustible fund of 
anecdote of the most interesting, as well as amusing descrip- 
tion, and told his stories in the fewest words possible, so that 
not only did they never weary you, but they might have been 
printed without the slightest verbal alteration. Luttrell rarely 
recounted anything he had heard or seen, but charmed you by 
the sparkle of his language, and the felicity of his epithets. 
One evening at a party, having accepted a verbal invitation to 
dinner, under the idea that his son, who was present, would 
also be asked, and finding subsequently that he was not, he 
said, " Then who is going to dine there ? " "I really don't 

know, but I believe the Bishop of for one.*'' " The 

Bishop of ! " exclaimed Luttrell. " Mercy upon me ! I 

don't mix well with the Dean, and I shall positively effervesce 
with the Bishop." 

Though great friends, for many years, and almost constant 
companions, they would occasionally conment on each other's 



ROGERS AND LUTTRELL. 1 15 

peculiarities with humorous freedom. At an assembly at 
Grosvenor House Mr. Luttrell informed me Mr. Rogers had 
hurt his foot. On expressing my regret at the cause of his 
absence, " Oh ! " said Luttrell, " he'll be here to-night for all 
that ; that old man would go out with the rattles in his 
throat ! " I don't think Rogers was five years his senior. 

Rogers had the reputation of being very ill-natured, and 
many instances have been given to me by others. I am bound 
to declare that during all the time I knew him I never heard 
him say a really ill-natured thing of any one ; but he by no 
means denied the accusation. " When I was young," he ob- 
served to me, " I used to say good-natured things, and nobody 
listened to me. Now that I am old I say ill-natured things 
and everybody listens to me." So much has been written 
about the " Poet of Memory," and so many of his anecdotes 
circulated, both in print and conversation, that I shall limit my 
contribution to the " Table-talk " I heard from his own lips, 
and two or three anecdotes kindly communicated to me by 
Mrs. Procter. The following, which he told me himself, I 
give as nearly as I can recollect in his precise words : — 

" My old friend Maltby, the brother of the Bishop, was a 
very absent man. One day at Paris, in the Louvre, we were 
looking at the pictures, when a lady entered who spoke to me 
and kept me some minutes in conversation. On rejoining 

Maltby I said, ' That was Mrs. . We have not met so 

long she had almost forgotten me, and asked me if my name 
was Rogers." Maltby, still looking at the pictures, said, 
" And was it ? " 

" A man stopped me one day in Piccadilly and. said, ' How 
do you do, Mr. Rogers ? ' I didn't know him. ' You don't 
remember me, sir. I had the pleasure of seeing you at Bath.' 
I said, ' Delighted to see you again — at Bath.' " 

" It was the fashion formerly to make your guests drunk : 
and there was a gentleman staying in a country house, and 
they made him very drunk, and they tarred and feathered him, 
and put him to bed. In the morning he woke, and he wasn't 
sober then. . He rose and went to a cheval-glass, and lis 
looked at himself and said, ' A bird, bv ! ' " 



116 y. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

Mrs. Procter's reminiscences I shall also give verbatim, 
from the notes with which she has favored me. 

" Driving out with him," she writes, " I asked him after 
Lady Matheson, who was continually making him presents, 
and he said, ' I don't know Lady Matheson.' He then pulled 
the check-string and said, ' Henry, do I know Lady Mathe- 
son ? ' The servant replied, ' Law, Sir ! my lady comes to see 
you, and sends you presents nearly every day.' We drove on, 
I feeling very uncomfortable, and wishing I had never men- 
tioned the lady. Mr. Rogers took my hand, and raising it to 
. his lips said, ' At any rate, I have not forgotten you.' Once 
breakfasting with him, a man was spoken of, and the whole 
party said, one after another, what a nice man he was, etc., 
etc., etc. When it came to me, I said, ' I don't like him.' 
' No more do I,' said Rogers, 'only I had not courage enough 
to say so.' " 

" At his table the conversation never degenerated into small 
gossip. He always gave it a good tone. I once said, i I won- 
der how it is that the are able to keep a carriage ? ' He 

immediately turned to his man Edmond and said, ' Go to 

Square, with Mrs. Procter's and Mr. Rogers's compliments, 
and they wish to know how they contrive to pay for their car- 
riage.' I felt this a very proper rebuke." 

Rogers had very peculiar notions respecting poetry. The 
highly imaginative had no charm for him. He could not ap- 
preciate the grandeur of oriental language of the Old Testa- 
ment, and constantly contrasted it with the simple pathos of 
the New. He would quote the celebrated description of the 
Horse in the Book of Job, " His neck is clothed with thunder, 
and he crieth Ha ! ha ! to the lightning." " That's nonsense," 
he said to me — then turning to the nth chapter of St. John, 
ht pointed to the two words which form the 35th verse, "Jesus 
wept. ' " That's poetry ! " 

The same taste induced him, whilst he admired the plays of 
Shakespeare, to speak contemptuously of his sonnets. At 
breakfast one morning, Mr. Procter and I undertook their 
defense Rogers challenged us to repeat a line of them, and 



ROGERS AND LUTTRELL. \\*J 

to his infinite amusement neither of us were able. I got as 
far as " Oh how much more doth beauty," and there I stuck. 
Procter could not remember a word. He who had sung the 
" Pleasures of Memory " chuckled triumphantly. We whom 
it had treacherously deserted sat humiliated, but " of the same 
opinion still." 

It was much the same with respect to music. Simplicity 
and brevity alone had charms for him. " Is not that delight- 
ful," I asked him one evening at Mrs. Sartoris's. It was an 
air by Sebastian Bach. " Yes, and so short," was the reply. 
With Dr. Johnson, he wished that everything " wonderful " in 
the way of execution or ornamentation was " impossible." 
During the performance of a " grand scena," no matter who 
was the singer, it was his custom to ask any one who sat near 
him, " If you heard those sounds in a hospital wouldn't you 
suppose some horrible operation was going on ? " 

The jokes on his personal appearance never seemed to dis- 
turb his tranquillity. " Rogers, you're rich enough, why don't 
you keep your hearse ? " is a well-known question addressed 
to him by some wicked wag — I think Lord Alvanley ; but he 
was as hard upon himself. He tried to cheer my wife, who 
was becoming a confirmed invalid, by assuring her that he 
never knew what health was till he was fifty, and that when he 
was a young man he wore a yellow coat, and was called the 
Dead Dandy. Singularly enough, after the accident which 
deprived him of the power of walking, it might truly have been 
said he kept his hearse, for he was carried in his chair and put 
into his carriage by a door made at the back of it, in perfect 
conformity with that vehicle which drives us to the bourne 
from which no traveller returns. The last time I breakfasted 
with him, the other guests were Lord Glenelg, Sir David 
Brewster, and Mr. Babbage ; but his strength and memory 
were fast failing him, and he survived his old friend Luttrell 
but a few years. London society has yet to seek their suc- 
cessors. 



Il8 7- ROBINSON PLANCHE, 

Lady Salisbury. 

On the occasion of the first great Handel Festival in West* 
minster Abbey, May, 1784, at which Mr. Grenville was present, 
Lady Salisbury arrived very late. The King (George III.), 
Queen Charlotte, and all the royal family were in their places, 
and the performance had begun. In the midst of a piece of 
music, a loud, hammering was heard, which disturbed and of- 
fended the audience, who expressed their displeasure promptly 
and vehemently ; but in vain. On went the hammering with- 
out intermission. The music ceased ; the assembly rose in an 
uproar; and their Majesties dispatched Lord Salisbury — at 
that time Lord Chamberlain — to ascertain the cause of so 
indecent a disturbance. It proved to be his own wife. On 
entering the box reserved for the Lord Chamberlain and his 
family, her ladyship found it had been divided, to accommo- 
date another party, and had insisted on carpenters being sent 
for and compelled to pull down the partition, in utter disregard 
of King, Queen, Lords, and Commons, singers, fiddlers, and 
the awful British public ! 

Going with her daughters to the Chapel Royal St. James's, 
one Sunday morning, and not being able to find a seat, she 
said, in answer to the question of " Where shall we go, 
mamma ? " " Home again, to be sure ! If we can't get in, 
it's no fault of ours. We've done the civil thing." 

Mr. Grenville survived the Duchess-Countess, and occupied 
the house in Hamilton Place, where he died, leaving the whole 
of his magnificent library to tHe British Museum. Her Grace 
was my warm friend to the eud of her life, never losing an 
opportunity of showing me a courtesy or doing me a service. 
Rogers always spoke of her to me as " Our Friend — that 
very great lady." And she was as gracious as she was great. 
Lord Byron, who was introduced to her in Paris when she was 
Marchioness of Stafford, says in one of his letters, " Her man- 
ners are princessly ; " and the term happily conveys the idea 
of that natural dignity of demeanor combined with the most 
charming affability which was her peculiar characteristic. 



THE SKETCHING SOCIETY. 1 1 9 

The Sketching Society. 

At the choice little dinners of my friend Thomas George 
Fonnereau, in the Albany — a great lover and liberal patron 
of art — I constantly met Eastlake, Stanfield, Roberts, Maclise, 
and Decimus Burton, the architect, the latter of whom, I am 
happy to say, I can still number among surviving friends. 
There was a sketching society existing about that period 
(1836), held at the houses of the members alternately, to the 
meetings of which I was frequently invited, and most pleasant 
and interesting evenings I found them. The two brothers Al- 
fred and John Chalon were constant attendants, and exceed- 
ingly amiable men they were. A subject was given by the 
host of the evening, and each member was allowed a certain 
time — an hour, I think — to treat it according to his own 
fancy. 

It was extremely interesting to walk round the table and no- 
tice the variety of manner in which the same incident was illus- 
trated, according to the peculiar taste and style of each of these 
eminent men. On one occasion I remember the subject was 
the seizure of Jaffier's goods and chattels by " the sons of pub- 
lic rapine," as described by Pierre, in Otway's tragedy of 
"Venice Preserved," act I., scene 1. 

While one depicted the chambers and staircases of the Pa- 
lazzo, swarming with " filthy dungeon villains," dragging out or 
staggering under the weight of costly furniture, 

11 Ancient and domestic ornaments, 
Rich hangings intermixed and wrought with gold." 

and another portrayed . 

u A ruffian with a horrid face, 
Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate 
Tumbled into a heap for public sale." 

Alfred Chalon contented himself with the single figure of 
Lelvidera, gazing sadly from a window " jour a gauche " on the 
scene of spoliation supposed to be passing below ; while Stan- 
neld, true to his instincts, made a spirited drawing of a canal 



120 J. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

alive with gondolas, and just indicated the removal of the goods 
from the water-gate of the mansion. 

When the allotted time had expired, each sketch was set up 
in its turn, finished or not finished, on the table, with two can- 
dles before it, and subjected to the criticism of the members — 
a process which was as productive of good-natured fun and 
banter as of valuable opinions and suggestions. After this 
came supper, rigorously restricted to bread, cheese, butter, and 
lettuce ; beer and brandy, or whiskey and water, and fortunately 
for me, no smoking. 

I considered it a great privilege to be one of the very few 
visitors admitted to these noctes, and my recollection of them 
is only saddened by the reflection that not one of that gifted 
and genial company is now in existence. As the sketches of 
the evening became the property of the member at whose 
house they were made, it is probable that some night's work 
may have been preserved in its integrity. What an art 
treasure it would be now ! 

Historic Accuracy. 

It may surprise many persons to learn that forty or fifty years 
ago our greatest painters, poets, and novelists were, as far i& 
regarded a correct idea of the civil and military costume of ou.r 
ancestors, involved in Cimmerian darkness. To Sir Waller 
Scott the honor is due of having first attracted public attention 
to the advantages derivable from the study of such subjects, as 
a new source of effect as well as of historical illustration ; and 
though his descriptions of the dress, armor, and architecture of 
the Anglo-Norman and mediaeval periods are far from correct, 
those in the romances and poems, the scenes of which are laid 
in his own country or elsewhere during the sixteenth and sev- 
enteenth centuries, are admirable for their truth and graphic 
delineation ; but though writers of fiction, inspired by his ex- 
ample, took more pains to acquire information on these points, 
painters continued to perpetrate the grossest absurdities and 
anachronisms, often knowingly, under the mistaken idea thai 
they were rendering their productions more picturesque. Did 



HISTORIC ACCURACY. 121 

West, the President of the Royal Academy, render his compo- 
sition more picturesque by representing Paris in the Roman 
instead of the Phrygian costume ? Did Etty gain anything by 
placing a helmet of the reign of James or Charles I. by the 
bedside of Holof ernes ? As I have remarked elsewhere, "Is 
it pardonable in a man of genius and information to perpetuate 
errors upon the ground that they may pass undiscovered by 
the million ? Does not the historical painter voluntarily offer 
himself to the public as an illustrator of habits and manners, 
and is he wantonly to abuse the faith accorded to him ? " 

As an example of the extraordinary hallucinations which oc- 
casionally possess artists of first-rate ability, my old friend 
John Liston called on me one day and flattered me by express- 
ing the request of Sir David Wilkie, who was a connection of 
his, that I would pay him a visit at Kensington and see his 
great picture (now so well known) of " Knox preaching to his 
Congregation," before it was sent to the Royal Academy for 
exhibition, in order that I might point out to him any little in- 
accuracy in the costume of the figures he had introduced. I 
accompanied Liston with great pleasure, and on being shown 
the picture, immediately pointed out to Sir David that the 
armed men in the gallery were depicted in helmets of the time 
of Charles I. or Cromwell, instead of those of the period of his 
subject. His answer was that he intended to represent per- 
sons who were curious to hear the discourse of the preacher, 
but did not wish to be recognized, and therefore came in armor. 
I could not help smiling at this explanation, and asked him 
wherefore, as such was his intention, he had not given them 
the helmet of the sixteenth century, which, when the vizor was 
closed, effectually concealed every feature, in preference to 
that of the seventeenth, with its simple nose-guard or slender 
triple bars, which allowed the face clearly to be seen ? He 
mused a little, and then half promised to make the alteration ; 
but he didn't ; and there is the picture and the engravings 
from it handed down to posterity with a willful anachronism 
which diminishes the effect, whilst it utterly defeats the object 
of the painter ! 



122 J. ROBINSON PLANCHA. 

But, it may be argued, the dresses of some periods would de« 
tract from the expression of the figure, which is the higher ob- 
ject of the painter's ambition. Such and such colors are 
wanted for peculiar purposes, and these might be the very 
tints prohibited by the critical antiquary. To these and other 
similar objections my answer has always been that the exertion 
of a tithe of the study and ingenuity exercised in the invention 
of dresses to satisfy the painter's fancy would enable him to 
be perfectly correct, and often, indeed, more effective, from the 
mere necessity of introducing some hues and forms which 
otherwise had never entered into his imagination. Take for 
example a circumstance related to me by Sir Samuel Meyrick, 
many years ago. Shortly after the publication of his " Critical 
Inquiry into Ancient Arms and Armor," in which the land- 
marks were first laid down for the guidance of all future anti- 
quaries, Mr. Abraham Cooper, so well known for his spirited 
battle scenes, called on him with the request that he would 
kindly inform him what sort of caparisons were used for horses 
in the reign of Richard III., as he was painting the " Battle of 
Bosworth Field," and wished the details to be as accurate as 
possible. Meyrick explained to him that at that period the 
king's horse would have been covered with housings of silk, 
embroidered with the royal arms of France and England quar- 
terly. " Oh ! " exclaimed Cooper, in consternation, " that will 
never do ! My principal object is to paint ' White Surrey,' and 
if he is to be muffled up in that manner there will be nothing 
seen of him but his hoofs ! " " Stop," said the antiquary ; 
" what particular incident in the battle do you propose to rep- 
resent ? " " The last desperate charge of Richard," replied the 
artist, " in which he slew Richmond's standard-bearer and un- 
horsed Sir John Cheney." " Then," suggested Meyrick, " it 
would be fair to suppose that in so fierce a conflict the silken 
lousings of the horse would by that time have been almost in 
latters, and display as much of his body as would be neces- 
sary." The painter seized the idea. The blue and scarlet 
housings, slashed to pieces and streaming in the wind, in- 
creased the effect of action in the steer, and contrasted admir 



LOUIS NAPOLEON. 1 23 

ably with his color. The picture was most successful, and is, 
I believe, considered to this day one of the best examples of 
our English Wouvermans. 

Louis Napoleon. 

I had been dining at Notting Hill, and was walking home to 
Brompton between ten and eleven. On arriving opposite 
Gore House, I thought I would avail myself of my pleasant 
privilege, and " drop in " for half an hour. There had been a 
small dinner party, and only four gentlemen were remaining. 
Two of them I knew, Lord Nugent and the Hon. Frederick 
Byng (familiarly called " Poodle ") ; the other two were 
strangers to me ; but the youngest immediately engaged my 
attention. It was the fashion in that day to wear black satin 
kerchiefs for evening dress ; and that of the gentleman in 
question was fastened by a large spread eagle in diamonds 
clutching a thunderbolt of rubies. There was but one man in 
England at that period who, without the impeachment of cox- 
combry, could have sported so magnificent a jewel ; and, 
though I had never +o my knowledge seen him before, I felt 
convinced that he could be no other than Prince Louis Napo- 
leon. Such was the fact ; and his companion was Count 
Montholon. There was a general conversation on indirferent 
subjects for some twenty minutes, during which the Prince 
spoke but little, and then took his departure with the Count. 
Shortly afterwards Lord Nugent, Mr. Byng, and I said, 
" Good-night," and walked townward together. As we went 
along one of my companions said to the other, " What could 
Louis Napoleon mean by asking us to dine with him this day 
twelve-months at the Tuileries ? " Four days afterwards the 
question was answered. The news arrived of the abortive 
landing at Boulogne and the captivity of the Prince, who had 
fallen into the trap so astutely laid for him. After his escape 
from Ham, the Prince, as is well known, returned to England, 
and continued to be a welcome guest at Gore House. " Time s 
whirlgig" upset the throne of the Citizen King, who landed at 
Newhaven as "a party of the name of Smith ; " — and, " Hey, 



124 7 ROBINSON PLANCH&. 

presto, pass !" Louis Napoleon was once more in France — 
and, this time, u President of the Republic." While the sun 
shone for him, a cloud came over his friends at Gore House. 
D'Orsay, "the glass of fashion and the mould of form," took 
refuge, in his turn, in Paris, and was soon followed by Lady 
Blessington. I heard by accident of her intended departure, 
called, and sat with her two hours alone on the day before she 
left. It is a great gratification to me that I had the opportunity 
of paying the last attention in my power to one who, whatever 
may have been her errors, was uniformly kind to me, and 
under whose roof I have passed so many enjoyable hours in 
the society of the most distinguished " men of the time," for- 
eign as well as English. Naturally enough both Count 
D'Orsay and Lady Blessington calculated that the President 
would rejoice in his power to repay the hospitality and kind- 
ness he had received from them in his exile; but, unfortu- 
nately, they did not make sufficient allowance for the extremely 
delicate position in which he was placed. For D'Orsay he 
did what he could, and would doubtless have neglected no 
opportunity of serving him, compatible with his responsible 
situation. But what could he do for Lady Blessington ? Re- 
ceive her at the Tuileries ? Impossible ! and yet that was the 
thorn that rankled in her breast. Driving one day in the 
Champs Elysees, she was overtaken by the President on 
horseback. After the first salutations and the exchange of a 
few sentences, the Prince, unfortunately, asked, " Comptez- 
vous rester long-temps ici ? " " Et vous ? " was the bitter 
retort, by which " more Hibernice," she answered a question 
by a question. Her Irish blood was roused, and, like a true 
Celt, reason was disregarded. 

Lablache. 

On the occasion of the visit of Her Majesty and the Prince 
Consort to Paris, strict orders were issued respecting the 
admission of strangers to the Park of St. Cloud during the 
promenade of the Imperial and Royal Party. Amongst the 
select few admitted was the late most popular vocalist, Signor 



HAYNES BAYLYS WIDOW. 125 

Lablache. His remarkable person immediately caught the eye 
of the Emperor, who is said to have exclaimed, " There is 
Lablache ! I only know him by sight. I should like to speak 
to him." And the Queen and Prince Albert being well ac- 
quainted with him, one of the gentlemen in attendance was 
sei t for him. After presentation, the Emperor said, " You 
have a son, I believe, in my army ? " "I have, sire. " " What 

is his rank ? " " He is a sous-lieutenant in the Regiment, 

sire." The Emperor of the French turned to the Queen of 
England, and said, " Would not your Majesty like to make 
Lablache' s son a captain f n — and a captain, of course, he 
became. Not having been present, I can only " say the tale 
as 'twas said to me ; " but it is highly characteristic of the 
Emperor's taste and tact, and I have every reason to believe it 
substantially true for the reason I have already given. 

Apropos of Lablache, it was after dinner at Gore House 
that I witnessed his extraordinary representation of a thunder- 
storm simply by facial expression. The gloom that gradually 
overspread his countenance appeared to deepen into actual 
darkness, and the terrific frown indicated the angry lowering of 
the tempest. The lightning commenced by winks of the eyes, 
and twitchings of the muscles of the face, succeeded by rapid 
sidelong movements of the mouth, which wonderfully recalled 
to you the forked flashes that seem to rend the sky, the notion 
of thunder being conveyed by the shaking of his head. By 
degrees the lightning became less vivid, the frown relaxed, 
the gloom departed, and a broad smile illuminating his expan- 
sive face assured you that the sun had broken through the 
clouds and the storm was over. He told me the. idea occurred 
to him in the Champs Elysees, where one day, in company 
with Signor de Begnis, he witnessed a distant thunder-storm 
above the Arc de Triomphe. 

Haynes Bayly's Widow. 

My poor friend, Haynes Bayly, whose health had been failing 
for some time past, died at Cheltenham on the 22d of April, 
'839, leaving his widow and two little girls, the eldest a crip- 



126 J. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

pie, in sadly straitened circumstances. Mrs. Bayly wrote to 
ask me if I thought the music-publishers would raise a sub- 
scription for her. I replied that it was possible a small sum 
might be collected from them and private friends ; but that if 
she would allow me to get up a public representation at one of 
the gre* theatres, avowedly for " the benefit of the widow and 
children of the late Thomas Haynes Bayly," I was inclined to 
hope for much better results than could be expected from per- 
sonal solicitation. She shrunk at first from the publicity of 
such an appeal, but at length consented ; and with the ready 
and zealous cooperation of Charles Dance and the majority of 
my brother-dramatists, a most attractive bill of fare was speed- 
ily advertised ; Bunn giving us the use of Drury Lane, and the 
dlite of the dramatic and musical professions their gratuitous 
services. 

In this good work I was greatly assisted by a most kind- 
hearted but singular man, with whom I had been long intimate, 
not only in consequence of his being a constant frequenter of 
the green-rooms at all the principal theatres, but from the cir- 
cumstance of one of my brothers-in-law being a principal clerk 
in his department, which was a branch of the Audit Office. 
This was the Hon. Edmund Byng. He not only collected for 
me a good round sum in subscriptions, but gave a dinner to 
the Duchess of Bedford and some half dozen other ladies of 
high rank, in order to secure their personal attendance at the 
theatre, and thereby that of a large proportion of their ac- 
quaintance. Mr. Lockhart, Theodore Hook, Captain Marryat, 
and other private friends also exerted themselves most laud- 
ably. Miss Burdett Coutts, with her usual large-heartedness, 
on my application for her private box, sent me £10 in order to 
retain it for herself. A characteristic note of Hook is worth 
recording : — 

" Fulham, Tuesday. 

" I send you a bit more for our poor widow, and hope to do more 

to-morrow. I will, and I can. One of my friends, whose taste is 

theatrical, but whose disposition is thrifty, would like four tickets for 

the performance as a set-off for his mite, f suppose he may or must 



HA YNES BA YL ITS WIDO W. 1 27 

have them ; if so, perhaps you would put them under c< ver to me, 
directed hither per post. I have often heard of the golden mean. 
I now know what it is. " Yours very truly, 

"Theodore E. Hook." 

We had a brilliant and overflowing house, and cleared be- 
tween four and five hundred pounds. But most useful and 
important to her as was such a sum at the moment, it was, as 
Mrs. Charles Gore wrote to me, "little enough for a widow 
and two children," ! as a provision for the future, and with the 
greatest economy would soon be exhausted. 

By Mrs. Bayly's desire it was placed in the hands of Lord 
Nugent and myself as trustees, to be drawn upon by her as 
circumstances might require ; but now comes the most gratify- 
ing part of the story. 

Mrs. Bayly possessed in her own right a small estate in 
Ireland, which was in the hands of what is called in that 
country " a middleman," and from whom she not only received 
no remittances, but continual demands for money for repairs 
and every imaginable purpose. Of this Lord Nugent and I 
knew nothing ; but it occurred to Mrs. Bayly that if she could 
contrive to repay this gentleman, into whose debt she was 
daily getting to an extent which threatened the absorption of 
the whole property, she could go and live in Ireland in a house 
of her own, and on her own land, comfortably. Most prov- 
identially the proceeds of the benefit enabled her to do this, 
and fifteen years afterwards I had the pleasure of escorting 
her to Her Majesty's drawing-room to present her youngest 
daughter. The substantial " benefit " which thus resulted tc 
my old friend's wife and family is an event I look back upon 
with the greatest gratification. Charles Kemble used to tell 
a far different story about some poor foreigner, dancer, or 
pantomimist in the country, who, after many annual attempts 
to clear his expenses, came forward one evening with a face 
beaming with pleasure and gratitude, and addressed the 

1 " I wrote/' she added, in a postcript, " to two fine ladles, begging them to pat* 
ronize the representation, but most likely without success, for during the London 
season, and especially in such very hot weather, nobody cares /or his fellow crea- 
*ures. " 



128 ." J. ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

audience in these words : — " Dear Public ! moche oblige 
Ver good benefice — only lose half a crown — I come again ! 

Edmund Byng. 

I have incidentally mentioned Mr. Edmund Byng, and his 
kind exertions on behalf of Mrs. Haynes Bayly. As my 
:ntiiracy with this gentleman extended over very many years 
to the day of his death, I will take this opportunity of express- 
ing my regard for one whom I ever found foremost in the 
cause of charity and kindness of every description. 

I do this the more because he was, from infirmity of temper 
and other peculiarities — I may say eccentricities — extremely 
unpopular in many circles ; even, unfortunately, with his own 
family. Amongst his numerous praiseworthy actions was the 
interest he took in cheering the last years of the veteran, 
Thomas Dibdin. An annual dinner was established by Mr. 
Byng at Evans's Hotel, Covent Garden, the tickets one guinea 
each ; and the guests through his personal influence rarely 
fell short of a hundred. Half the money went to pay for the 
dinner ; but it was a good fifty pounds per annum to the old 
man, and procured him many comforts he might otherwise 
have stood sorely in need of. The day fixed for the dinner 
was the 21st of March, the anniversary of the birthday of " the 
last of the three Dibdins," and the author, as it has been 
asserted, of 800 dramatic pieces. The first took place in 
1837. He died in 1841, at the age of seventy. 

I had the pleasure of acting as Mr. Byng's lieutenant on 
these occasions, and the gratification of receiving from the 
veteran dramatist the following proof of his appreciation of 
my earnest, however humble, exertions in the good cause : — 
"Dear Sir,— 

" If words could express genuine thanks, you should have a speci- 
men ot more than common eloquence from a pen that can only plainly 
acknowledge your repeated and persevering kindness exhibited or 
the birthday anniversaries of, Dear Sir, 

" Your truly obliged Servant, 

"Thomas Dibdin." 

King Street, March 24, 1839. 
" R. Planche, Esq." 



EDMUND BYNG. 1 29 

Mr. Byng's own dinners, were things to remember. Lord 
Blessington, by no means a bad judge, used to say, " Byng, 
I often go out to dinner ; but when I desire to dine I come to 
you." They were first-rate old English dinners. No soups ; 
no kickshaws ; large dishes of magnificent fish ; a haunch of 
four-year-old Southdown ; a pheasant pie ; a coursed hare ; or 
other equally excellent edibles, according to the season, and 
nothing out of it. No forced asparagus ; no house lamb ; and 
in the centre of the table stood always a large wooden bowl, 
as white as milk, filled with the finest potatoes perfectly boiled 
in their "jackets /" He kept an Irish kitchen-maid expressly 
for that purpose ; and palled must have been the palates, and 
morbid the appetites, of those who could not enjoy such fare as 
was always to be found in Clarges Street. As to the company, 
it was as good as the dinner. By no means select in one sense 
of the word, as his guests were rarely selected. The first 
eight or ten men he met with as he walked down to his club, 
or found there, peers, poets, players, painters, soldiers, sailors, 
doctors of law, medicine, or divinity — "the three black 
graces," as James Smith called them ; for Mr. Byng's acquaint- 
ance was most miscellaneous : any friends or agreeable per- 
sons whom gentlemen could not object to meet, were verbally 
invited for the next or an early day, " to dine and go to the 
play," for such was the usual programme. Here I met the 
Duke of Gordon, the late Marquis of Hertford, Lord Milford, 
Lord Methuen, Sir John Conroy, the Hobhouses, and many 
other men of note or " about town ; " and passed many a 
pleasant evening, adjourning all together to a theatre or its 
green-room, and occasionally winding up with a supper at 
Evans's. Latterly Mr. Byng's eyesight became seriously af- 
fected, and his natural irritability increased with his years. 
1 visited him to the last — one of the few who did so of " those 
his former bounty fed" — and shall ever cherish a grateful 
recollection of his many kindnesses. Apropos of dinners, Mr. 
Luttrell once said to me, " Sir, the man who says he does not 
like a good dinner is either a fool or a liar." 
9 



130 J. ROBINSON PLINCHE. 

Charles Mayke Young. 

I had been exceedingly amused, I might say interested, by- 
watching at the Zoological Gardens the attention of an old 
monkey to a poor little sick young one. How related I had 
lot ascertained. But describing the scenes I had witnessed 
one day in Young's company, he was so tickled with my imita- 
tion of the little invalid, that he immediately commenced one 
of the elder monkey, and whenever we met, in public or pri- 
vate, for many years afterwards kept up the joke. Upon one 
occasion I was talking to Sloman, the carpenter, on the stage 
at Covent Garden at the time Sheridan Knowles was reading 
one of his plays (" Old Maids,'' I think) in the Green-room, 
when Young entered the theatre, and, seeing me, commenced 
his usual antics, to which, of course, I immediately responded. 
Sloman, who was a valuable old servant of the establishment 
and on very familiar terms with every one in the theatre, rushed 
into the Green-room and announced that Mr. Young and Mr. 
Planche were M playing at monkeys " on the stage. In a mo- 
ment the room was deserted, the whole of the company, Mr. 
and Mrs. Charles Mathews at their head, poured out of it to 
witness the exhibition, to the extreme and very natural annoy- 
ance of poor Knowles, whose reading was thus unceremo- 
niously interrupted. Another day, as I was strolling westward 
through Coventry Street, Piccadilly, I became aware that a 
hackney coach was intentionally keeping pace with me and at- 
tracting the attention of passing strangers. On turning my 
head to see what was the cause, I observed what appeared to 
be the face of a large baboon, occupying nearly all the glass of 
the coach window, the eyes fixed on me with the most in- 
tensely serious expression. Startled for the moment, I speed- 
ily recognized Young, and laughingly nodded to him, but not a 
muscle of his features relaxed, and the face remained at the 
window, with the awful eyes bent upon me, as long as our 
course was in the same direction. His letters to me, conse- 
quently, about this period, frequently concluded with some al- 
lusion to this absurd practice of ours, as in the following note, 
without date. 



CHARLES MA YNE YOUNG. 



131 



"Dear Planche, 

" Is there ? that is, do you know of any picture or engraving of a 
cavalier in the reign of Charles II. wherein said person wore his own 
hair short, and not a wig ? 

" I anticipate that you do not ; but I fear I must ask you to say aye 
*r no, and either will answer. 

" Your loving, constant brother, 

"The OLD Monkey." 

To many persons this may appear very silly, and unworthy 
of a great tragedian ; but the charm of Young's character was 
the boyish spirit with which he entered into or appreciated any 
fun or frolic, harmless in its nature, and which made him as 
great a favorite in the profession as his noble acting did with 
the public, and his polished manners and intellectual acquire- 
ments in the highest circles of society. 

One of the noblest tragedians on the stage, and a most per- 
fect gentleman in private society, Young was an irrepressible 
farceur, constantly playing with imperturbable gravity the most 
whimsical pranks in public. He undertook to drive Charles 
Mathews (ftls) to Cassiobury on a visit to the Earl of Essex. 
Having passed through a turnpike and paid the toll, he pulled 
up at the next gate he came to, and, addressing himself most 
politely to a woman who issued from the toll-house, inquired if 

Mr. , the toll-taker, whose name he saw on a board above 

the door, happened to be in the way. The woman answered 
that he was not in the house, but she would send for him if the 
gentleman wished to see him particularly. "Well, I'm sorry 
to trouble you, madam, but I certainly should like to have a 
few minutes' conversation with him," rejoined Young. Upon 
which the woman called to a little boy, " Tommy ! run and tell 
your father a gentleman wants to speak to him." Away ran 
Tommy, down a straight, long path in the grounds of a nursery 
and seedsman, the entrance to which was close to the turnpike, 
— Young sitting bolt upright in the tilbury, solemn and silent, 
to the astonishment of Mathews, who asked him vhat on earth 
he wanted with the man. " I want to consult him on a matter 
of business," was the reply. After some five or six minutes, 



IJ2 7- ROBINSON PLANCH&. 

the boy, who had entered a building at the extreme end of the 
path, reappeared, followed by a man putting on a jacket as he 
walked, and in due time both of them stood beside the tilbury. 
The man touched his hat to Young. " You wished to see me, 

sir?" "Are you Mr. ?" "Yes, sir." "The Mr. 

who is intrusted to take the toll at this gate ? " " Yes, sir." 
" Then you are precisely the person who can give me the in- 
formation I require. You see, Mr. , I paid sixpence at the 

gate at , and the man who took it gave me this little bit of 

paper " (producing a ticket from his waistcoat-pocket), " and 
assured me that if I showed it to the proper authorities at this 
gate I should be allowed to drive through without payment." 
" Why, of course," said the man, staring with amazement at 
Young. " That ticket clears this gate." " Then you do not 

require me to pay anything here ? " " No ! Why, any fool " 

" My dear Mr. , I'm so much obliged to you. I should 

have been so sorry to have done anything wrong, and therefore 
wished to have your opinion on the subject. A thousand 

thanks. Good morning, Mr. ." And on drove Young, 

followed, as the reader may easily imagine, by a volley of im- 
precations and epithets of anything but a flattering description, 
so long as he was within hearing. 

One of his chief delights was to abuse Meadows for residing 
at so great a distance from the theatre. As soon as he caught 
sight of him, wherever it might be, he would shout, " Meadows ! 
where do you live ? " " No. — , Barnsbury Terrace, Islington," 
was the invariable answer, which as, invariably brought down 
upon the respondent a torrent of whimsical invective, such as 
Young alone could extemporize, and uttered with a volubility 
and a vehemence as startling as humorous. One day, leisurely 
riding his well-known white cob up Regent Street, he espied 
Meadows walking in the same direction, considerably ahead of 
him. Fearing he might escape him, Young exerted all his 
magnificent power of voice in putting the usual question, 
" Meadows ! where do you live ? " Meadows turned at the 
sound of his name, and, to the utter discomfiture of his perse- 
cutor, bawled in reply, " No. — , Belgrave Square," rapidly dis- 



PRACTICAL JOKING. I 33 

appearing round the corner of Jermyn Street, before a most 
emphatic impeachment of his veracity rolled like thunder over 
the heads of the amazed but amused pedestrians from Water- 
loo Place to Piccadilly. 

Young was a special favorite with the late Lord Essex, and 
they were so much together, and on such familiar terms, that 
Poole being asked what Englishmen he had seen in Paris, 
said, "Only Lord Young and Mr. Essex." The last time 
Young called on me at Brompton he left his card, inscribed, 
"'Tis I, my lord — the early village cock." The last time I 
called on him was at Brighton, a few months before he died. 
He gave me a miserable account of himself, and wound up by 
saying, " I am seventy-nine, and seventy-nine is telling its 
tale." I never saw him again. 

Practical Joking. 

As long as I can remember, the peculiar style of joking of 
which I have related an example has been popular in the dra- 
matic profession, and, strange to say, some of the most humor- 
ous and audacious pranks have been perpetrated by actors who 
would never have been suspected of such a propensity. Such 
as Egerton, a dull, heavy man in society ; and Liston, who was 
an extremely shy man. Munden never saw me in the street, 
that he did not get astride his great cotton umbrella, and ride 
up to me like a boy on a stick. Wallack and Tom Cooke 
would gravely meet, remove with stolid countenances each 
other's hat, bow ceremoniously, replace it, and pass on without 
exchanging a word, to the astonishment of the beholders. 
Meadows continually would seat himself on the curb-stone 
opposite my house after we became neighbors, in Michael's 
Grove, Brompton, with his hat in his hand, like a beggar, 
utterly regardless of passing strangers, and remain in that atti- 
tude till I or some of my family caught sight of him, and threw 
him a halfpenny, or threatened him with the police. The 
peculiarity of these absurdities was that they were never pre- 
meditated, but were the offspring of mere " gaietd de coeur " — 
prompted by the whim of the moment. Unlike the elaborately 



134 7 XOBINSON PLANCHE. 

planned hcmxes of Theodore Hook and other "mad wags,' 
at one time so much the folly of the day, or the later mischiev- 
ous and dangerous escapades, the removal of signs, the wrench- 
ing off of knockers and bell-handles, and other more repre- 
hensible outrages in which young men of rank and fashion 
were weak enough to find amusement. 

LlSTON. 

Liston had taken his formal farewell of the public after the 
close of the Olympic in 1837 by a benefit at the Lyceum 
Theatre. The extreme depression under which that great 
comic actor occasionally labored has often been recorded ; and 
there was also, no doubt, a strong romantic and sentimental 
side to his character ; but his love of fun was great, and his 
humor, on and off the stage, irresistible. Like Young and 
others, his contemporaries, he delighted, as I have already 
premised, in practical joking in the public streets. Walking 
one day through Leicester Square with Mr. Miller, the theatri- 
cal bookseller of Bow Street, Liston happened to mention cas- 
ually that he was going to have tripe for dinner, a dish of which 
he was particularly fond. Miller, who hated it, said, " Tripe ! 
Beastly stuff ! How can you eat it ? " That was enough for 
Liston. He stopped suddenly in the crowded thoroughfare in 
front of Leicester House, and holding Miller by the arm, ex- 
claimed, in a loud voice, " What, sir ! So you mean to assert 
that you don't like tripe ? " " Hush ! " muttered Miller, " don't 
talk so loud ; people are staring at us." " I ask you, sir," con- 
tinued Liston, in still louder tones, " do you not like tripe ? " 
" For Heaven's sake, hold your tongue ! " cried Miller ; 
" you'll have a crowd round us." And naturally people began 
to stop and wonder what was the matter. This was exactly 
what Liston wanted, and again he shouted, " Do you mean to 
say you don't like tripe ? " Miller, making a desperate effort, 
broke from him, and hurried in consternation through Cran- 
bourne Alley, followed by Liston, bawling after him, " There 
he goes ! — that's the man who doesn't like tripe ! " to the 
immense amusement of the numerous passengers, many of 



CHARLES KEMBLE. 1 35 

whom recognized the popular comedian, till the horrified book- 
seller took to his heels and ran, as if for his life, up Long Acre 
into Bow Street, pursued to his very doorstep by a pack of 
young ragamuffins, who took up the cry, " There he goes ! — 
the man that don't like tripe ! " 

Our intimacy, which commenced with the production of 
"Charles XII.," continued throughout his life, the latter days 
of which were very deplorable. His sole occupation was sit- 
ting all day long at the window of his residence in St. George's 
Row, Hyde Park Corner (the house has just been pulled 
down), with his watch in his hand timing the omnibuses, and 
expressing the greatest distress and displeasure when one of 
them appeared to' him to be late. It became a sort of mono- 
mania. His spirits had completely forsaken him. He never 
smiled or entered into conversation, and eventually sank into 
a lethargy from w r hich he awoke no more in this world. I at- 
tended his funeral by invitation, walking with Charles Kemble, 
who was much affected by the loss of his old friend and fellow- 
comedian. 

Charles Kemble. 

Mr. Kemble had been appointed Examiner of Plays, on the 
decease of Mr. Colman, and had in consequence taken his 
leave of the stage during Mr. Osbaldiston's management of 
Covent Garden Theatre, December 23d, 1836, though he after- 
wards played some of his principal characters, by the express 
desire of her Majesty, for a few nights, during the occupancy 
of that theatre by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Matthews. On his 
retirement, the members of the Garrick invited him to a din- 
ner at the Albion Hotel, Lord Francis Egerton (afterwards 
Earl of Ellesmere) in the chair. His lordship made a most 
eloquent and brilliant speech in proposing the toast of the 
evening. He spoke of the Kembles as " that illustrious 
family," and declared that, all Conservative as he was, he had 
been so excited by the oratorical power of Charles Kemble in 
the character of Antony, that at the close of his speech to the 
citizens over the body of Caesar, he had frequently felt he 



I36 J. ROBIXSON PLANCHk. 

could have rushed into the streets with the most democratic of 
mobs, and " sacked the houses of the senators." He was in- 
deed an Antony that might have u raised the stones of Rome 
to rise and mutiny." The following song, written by John 
Hamilton Reynolds, and set to music by Balfe, was sung by 
the latter after the toast : — 



Farewell ! our good wishes go with him to-day ! 
Rich in fame — rich in name — he has play'd out the play. 
We now who surround him would fain make amends 
For past years of enjoyment. We hail him as friends : 
Though the sock and the buskin for aye be removed, 
Still he serves in the cause of the Drama he loved. 
Our chief, nobly born, genius crown'd, our zeal shares : 
His coronet's hid by the laurel he wears. * 
Well ! wealthy we have been, though fortune may frown, 
And they cannot but say that we have had the crown. 



Shall we never again see his spirit infuse 

Life — life in the young gallant forms of the muse ? 

Through the lovers and heroes of Shakespeare he ran — 

All the soul of the soldier — the heart of the man ! 

Shall we never in Cyprus his revels retrace ? 

See him stroll into Angiers with indolent grace ? 

Or greet him in bonnet at fair Dunsinane ? 

Or meet him in moon-lit Verona again ? 

Well ! wealthy we have been, though fortune may frown, 
And they cannot but say that we have had the crown. 

3- 

Let the curtain come down — let the scene pass away — 

There's an Autumn, though Summer has squander'd its day 5 

We may sit by the fire, though we can't by the lamp, 

And re-people the banquet — re-soldier the camp. 

Oh ! nothing can rob us of memory's gold ; 

And though he quits the gorgeous, and we may grow old, 

1 Lord Francis Egerton was distinguished for his literary abilities. 



SHERIDAN KNOWLES. I 37 

With oar Shakespeare in hand, and bright forms in our brain, 
We may dream up our Sicldons and Kembles again. 

Well ! wealthy we have been, though fortune may frown, 
And they cannot but say that we have had the crown. 
Only those who have had the good fortune to witness those 
performances can appreciate the happy allusions in the second 
verse to the characters of Cassio, Falconbridge, Macduff, and 
Romeo, in which during my time I have never seen his equal. 

Charles Kemble had been amongst the first to recognize the 
dawning genius of Macready, and had remaraked to John 
Kemble, " That young man will be a great actor one of these 
days." " Con quello viso Charles ? " was the doubtful answer 
of that "noblest Roman of them all," who, pardonably enough, 
considered classical features indispensable to the effective 
representation of classical characters. Mr. Kemble became, 
in his later years, exceedingly deaf, but still continued to 
enjoy society, and contribute his full share to " the feast of 
reason, and the flow of soul." 

Sheridan Knowles. 

Of all the eccentric individuals I ever encountered, Sheridan 
Knowles was, I think, the greatest. Judge, gentle reader, if 
the following anecdotes may not justify my assertion. Walk- 
ing one day, with a brother-dramatist, Mr. Bayle Bernard, in 
Regent's Quadrant, Knowles was accosted by a gentleman in 
these terms : — "You're a pretty fellow, Knowles ! After 
fixing your own day and hour to dine with us, you never make 
your appearance, and from that time to this not a word have 
we heard from you ! " "I couldn't help it, upon my honor," 
replied Knowles ; " and I've been so busy ever since I haven't 
had a moment to write or call. How are you all at home ? " 
"Oh, quite well, thank you; but come now, will you name 
another day, and keep your word?" "I will — sure I will." 
"Well, what day? Shall we say Thursday next?" Thurs- 
day? Yes, by all means — Thursday be it." "At six?" 
"At six. IT1 be there punctually. My love to 'em all.' 
:'« Thank ye. Remember, now. Six next Thursday." "All 



I38 7. ROBINSON PLANCHk. 

right, my dear fellow , I'll be with you." The friend departed ; 
and Knowles, relinking his arm with that of Bayle Bernard, 
said, " Who's that chap ? " not having the least idea of the 
name or residence of the man he had promised to dine with on 
the following Thursday, or the interesting " family at home," 
to whom he had sent his love. Upon one occasion when he 
was acting in the country he received an anxious letter from 
Mrs. Knowles, informing him that the money — ^200. which 
he had promised to send up on a certain day, had never 
reached her. Knowles immediately wrote a furious letter to 
Sir Francis Freeling, at that time at the head of the Post- 
office, of which, of course, I cannot give the precise words, 
but beginning " Sir," and informing him that on such a day, 
at such an hour, he himself put a letter into the post-office at 
such a place, containing the sum of ^200 in bank-notes, and 
that it had never been delivered to Mrs. Knowles ; that it was 
a most unpardonable piece of negligence, if not worse, of the 
post-office authorities, and that he demanded an immediate 
inquiry into the matter, the delivery of the money to his wife, 
and an apology for the anxiety and trouble its detention had 
occasioned them. By return of post he received a most cour- 
teous letter from Sir Francis, beginning " Dear sir," as, al- 
though they were personal strangers to each other, he had re- 
ceived so much pleasure from Mr. Knowles' works, that he 
looked upon him as a valued friend, and continuing to say that 
he (Knowles) was perfectly correct in stating that on such a 
day and at such an hour he had posted a letter at con- 
taining bank-notes to the amount of ^200, but that, unfortu- 
nately, he had omitted not only his signature inside, but the 
address outside, having actually sealed up the notes in an en- 
velope containing only the words, " I send you the money," 
and posted it without a direction ! The consequence was that 
t was opened at the chief office in London, and detained till 
some inquiry was made about it. Sir Francis concluded by 
assuring him that long before he would receive his answer the 
money would be placed in Mrs. Knowles' hands by a special 
messenger. Knowles wrote back, " My dear sir, you are right, 



LEIGH HUNT. 1 39 

and I was wrong. God bless you ! I'll call upon you when I 
come to town." 

One day also in the country he said to Abbot, with whom he 
had been acting there, " My dear fellow, I'm off to-morrow. 
Can I take any letters for you ? " " You're very kind," an- 
swered Abbot ; " but where are you going to ? " "/ haven't 
made tip my mind." 

Seeing O. Smith, the popular melodramatic actor on the op- 
posite side of the Strand, Knowles rushed across the road, 
seized him by the hand, and inquired eagerly after his health. 
Smith, who only knew him by sight, said, " I think, Mr. Knowles, 
you are mistaken ; I am O. Smith." " My dear fellow," cried 
Knowles, " I beg you ten thousand pardons — I took you for 
your namesake, T. P. Cooke ! " 

An opera was produced at Covent Garden during my engage- 
ment, the story of which turned upon the love of a young count 
for a gipsy girl, whom he subsequently deserts for a lady of 
rank and fortune ; and in the second act there was a fete in the 
gardens of the chateau in honor of the bride elect. Mr. Binge, 
who played the count, was seated in an arbor near to one of the 
wings witnessing a ballet. Knowles, who had been in front 
during the previous part of the opera, came behind the scenes ; 
and, advancing as near as he could to Binge without being in 
sight of the audience, called to him in a loud whisper, " Binge ! " 
Binge looked over his shoulder. " Well, what is it ? " " Tel. 
me. Do you marry the poor gypsy after all ? " " Yes," an- 
swered Binge, impatiently, stretching his arm out behind him, 
and making signs with it for Knowles to keep back. Knowles 
caught his hand, pressed it fervently, and exclaimed " God bless 
you ! You are a good fellow ! " This I saw and heard myself 
as I was standing at the wing during the time. 

Leigh Hunt. 

The production of " The Legend of Florence " brought me 
into personal communication with Leigh Hunt, which ripened 
into the most intimate friendship, terminating only with his 
death. Of all my literary acquaintances, dear Leigh Hunt was, 



I4O J- ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

I think, the most delightful, as assuredly he was the most affeo 
tionate. Living within a short walk of us, his disengaged 
evenings were usually passed in Brompton Crescent, and most 
charming evenings he made them by the brightness, the origi- 
nality, and loving-kindliness of his nature. Suffering severely 
from the res angusti domus, there was no repining, no bitter- 
ness, no censoriousness in his conversation. He bore his own 
privations with cheerful resignation, and unaffectedly rejoiced 
in the better fortune of others. He was greatly delighted with 
the success of his play, and began another, the scenes of which ' 
he brought to us as he wrote, and read as only he could read. 
He had the wildest ideas of dramatic effect, and calculated in 
the most Utopian spirit upon the intelligence of the British pub- 
lic. As I often told him, if he read them himself, the magic of 
his voice, the marvelous intonation and variety of expression in 
his delivery, would probably enchain and enchant a general au- 
dience as it did us ; but the hope of being so interpreted was 
not to be entertained for a moment. As an example of the 
playfulness of his fancy, take the following : I was on my way 
to the theatre one morning with Charles Mathews in his car- 
riage. We had not spoken for some minutes, when, as we were 
passing a wholesale stationer's at the west end of the Strand, 
Mathews, in his whimsical way, suddenly said to me, " Planche, 
which would you rather be ?• Roake or Varty ? " such being the 
names painted over the shop-windows. I laughed at the ab- 
surdity of the question, and declined hazarding an opinion, as I 
had not the advantage of knowing either of the persons men- 
tioned. On my return home in the evening, for I usually dined 
at the theatre, I found Hunt at tea with my family, and told 
him the ridiculous question that had been put to me. " Now, 
do you know," he said, " I consider that anything but a ridicu- 
lous question. , I should say it was an exceedingly serious one, 
and which might have very alarming — nay, fatal consequences 
under certain mental or physical conditions. You might have 
become impressed by the notion that it was absolutely neces- 
sary for you to come to some decison on the question, and so 
absorbed in its consideration that you could think of nothing 



TOMKINSON. 



141 



else. All business, public or private, would be neglected. Per- 
petual pondering on one problem, which daily became more dif- 
ficult of solution, would result in monomania. Your health 
undermined, your brain overwrought, in the last moments of 
fleeting existence, only a few seconds left you in which to 
make your selection, you might rashly utter ' Roake ! ' then, 
suddenly repenting, gasp out ' Var,' and die before you could 
say < ty.' " 

He had a most amusing habit of coining words. Having paid 
my poor invalid wife, what she considered a great compliment, 
she said, " Oh, Mr. Hunt, you make me really begin to fear 
that you are — pardon me the epithet — a humbug." "Good 
gracious ! " he exclaimed, " that a man who has been imprisoned 
for speaking the truth should be accused of humbugeism /" — 
the softening of the g adding elegance to the novelty of the ex- 
pression. He had familiar names — noms d^amitie — for us 
all, made to rhyme according to an Oriental custom. My two 
daughters, Kate and Matilda, were, of course, " Katty and 
Matty." My wife's name, Elizabeth, instead of Betty, became 
" Batty." Her sister, Fanny, was transmuted to " Fatty," which 
she indignantly objected to as personal. " And what is papa's 
name to be ? " asked one of my girls. " Papa's ? oh, James 
must obviously be ' Jatty,' " and so "we remained to the end of 
the chapter. 

Tomkinson. 

He was a wealthy man, and a liberal purchaser of pictures, 
having some pretensions to rank as a connoisseur. Extremely 
diminutive in person, the pomposity of his manner, the gran- 
diloquence of his conversation, and the extravagance of his 
similes, formed the most amusing contrast to it imaginable. 
He was one of the delights of Young's existence. He would 
listen with the profoundest gravity to one of the little man's 
orations, and, at the end of it, snatch him up in his arms and 
carry him, struggling and kicking, round the room in the 
ecstasy of his admiration. A few flowers of rhetoric culled 
from the speeches of this remarkable individual will convince 
the reader that the eloquence was of no ordinary description, 



142 J. ROBINSON BLANCHE. 

if it do not raise a reasonable doubt of the veracity of my 
report of it. Having bought a painting by one of the old mas- 
ters — I forget the painter and the subject — he asked Mr. 
Mathews (the elder), who was fond of pictures, to call and see 
it. Ushering him, with much solemnity, into the room it had 
been hung in, and undrawing a green curtain by which it was 
covered, he silently quitted the room, leaving his visitor to 
contemplate the picture for some minutes. On rejoining him 
and receiving his congratulations on having made so desirable 
an aquisition to his collection, Tomkinson said, " Sir ! since 
ever you were born, — so long as you shall live, — never shall 
you see — such a picture as this ! " 

Calling one day on the Countess of Essex, she happened, in 
the course of conversation, to mention, casually, that she had 
not seen the new bridge at Southwark. " What ! " exclaimed 
Tomkinson, with a start, "you have not seen Southwark 
Bridge ! It is a marvelous work ! To give you an idea of its 
magnificent proportions, you shall take St. Paul's Cathedral, 
you shall place it on the river, it shall float through the centre 
arch of Southwark Bridge, it shall never touch it ! You shall 
take the monument, you shall lay it at full length across the 
river, it shall float through the centre arch of Southwark Bridge, 
it shall never touch it ! " The language is absurd enough ; but 
the emphasis with which it was delivered, the serious expres- 
sion of his features, the apparently perfect unconsciousness of 
any exaggeration in his similes, it is impossible for words to de- 
scribe, or to convey a notion of the effect upon his auditors. 
I don't remember that I ever saw him smile. I am satisfied I 
never heard him laugh ; but the difficulty to avoid laughing at 
him has sometimes caused me considerable inconvenience. 

Albert Smith. 

In the " Ascent of Mount Parnassus," which was a species 
of revue, I introduced a scene representing the room at the 
Egyptian Hall fitted up for Smith's entertainment aforesaid, 
and in which the popular entertainer himself was personated 
by Mr. Caulfield, of the Haymarket company. I had previously 



MISSING MOORE. 1 43 

asked and received Smith's permission to take this liberty with 
him, which was most good-naturedly accorded by that genial 
artist, with whom I had been long on terms of intimacy, and 
who felt assured that he had nothing to fear from any use I 
should make of his name or his property. 

He entered indeed into the fun of the thing with such spirit 
that he determined to act the scene himself some night without 
apprising Buckstone of his intention. Accordingly one evening, 
having privately intimated his intentk n to Mrs. Fitzwilliam, his 
own performance terminating at ten, affording him just time 
enough to reach the Haymarket before the scene was discov- 
ered, and no change being required in his dress, on the cue be- 
ing given, Smith appeared "in his habit as*he lived," to the 
astonishment and mystification of Buckstone — who alone had 
been carefully kept in ignorance of the matter — and the im- 
mense amusement of the whole company assembled at the 
wings to witness the effect. Smith was immediately recognized 
by the audience, who received him with repeated cheers, and in 
obedience to a unanimous call, he made his bow to them at the 
end of the scene, addressing a few pleasant words to them in 
explanation, and retired amidst hearty laughter and applause 
both before and behind the curtain. 

Missing Moore. 

On the first occasion of my dining in company w r ith Mr. 
Rogers, at the Duchess-Countess of Sutherland's, he asked 
Mr. Luttrell and me to meet Moore, who had promised to 
breakfast with him the next morning. I Went of course, and 
so did Luttrell ; but there was no Tom Moore. A note arrived 
from him to say he w r as obliged to breakfast at Holland House. 
Again and again similar disappointments took place. One day 
I was chatting with Haynes Bayly in the balcony of the Athe- 
naeum, when he suddenly said, " Here comes Tom Moore." 
" Where ? " I exclaimed eagerly, as I had never set eyes on 
him ; but before he could point him out to me, he had passed 
under the balcony in which we were standing, and was no 
longer in sight. On expressing my vexation, Bayly said, " Oh, 



144 /• ROBINSON PLANCHE. 

never mind, he's coming in here. Let us go down-stairs, and I 
will introduce you." Down-stairs we hastened, but there was 
no Tom Moore. On inquiry, the porter informed us that Mr 
Moore had simply asked for his letters, and, being told there 
were none, had not entered the club, but gone down the steps 
into St. James's Park. During the last season of my engage- 
ment at the Haymarket — 1847 — returning home to dinner, 1 
met Mr. Carter Hall, who asked me what I was going to do 
that evening. On my replying, " Nothing particular," he said, 
" Well, as you are disengaged, Tom Moore is coming to us, 
and we shall be happy if you will meet him." " I should be 
only too delighted, but I fear it's impossible." " What do you 
mean ? " I told him briefly how invariably I had been disap- 
pointed, and that I really felt it was not to be. He laughed, 
and assured me that I should be fortunate this time, for that 
Moore was going to dine quietly and early with a friend, who 
had promised faithfully to bring him at' eight o'clock ; but, he 
added, " Mind you are punctual, for Moore is far from well, 
and will not stay above an hour." I had just come from the 
theatre, and knew there was nothing, barring accidents, which 
could necessitate my presence that evening, so gladly accepted 
Mr. Hall's invitation. It was no party — only two or three 
friends and a quiet cup of tea. We should have Moore all to 
ourselves. How I rejoiced that I had met Mr. Hall ! I hur- 
ried home, dressed, and had just finished dinner, when a ser- 
vant came round from Farren's house in Brompton Square, 
with a note desiring to see me at the theatre as soon after eight 
as possible on most particular business. Farren was stage 
manager. Mr. Webster was out of town. I could not venture 
to neglect the summons, as I could form no guess of what the 
business might be. It was past seven o'clock, and Farren, 
who had to play in the first piece, was on the stage at that 
moment. He had not been at the theatre in the morning, so 
had not had an opportunity of speaking to me. There was no 
help for it ; go up to town I must. But Moore was to be at 
" the Rosery " at eight precisely, and would not stay long. At 
'east I should see and speak to him, if only for a minute. I 



MR. AND MRS. BARTLEY. 145 

was at Mr. Hall's at ten minutes to eight. Eight o'clock struck 
but no Moore ; a quarter past eight, but no Moore. It was 
agony point. I left the house under a promise from Mr. Hall 
that, if Moore did come, he would detain him as long as possi- 
ble. I had a vehicle in waiting, and told the coachman to 
drive as fast as he dared to the Haymarket, rushed up to Far- 
ren's room, who was undressing, and found that " the parti cu-' 
lar business " might have been communicated in the note he 
had sent me, and attended to at my leisure. I was out of the 
theatre again in five minutes, and back at the Rosery before 
nine, to hear that Moore had arrived immediately after I left, 
and had but that instant departed. As I felt, it was not to be ! 
I am not aware that he ever visited London again. At any 
rate, I never had the happiness even to behold him. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bartley. 

With Mr. and Mrs. George Bartley I had only a professional 
acquaintance. The lady had been accepted by the public as a 
leading tragedienne, and her husband was a sensible, unaf- 
fected actor, without any pretension to genius, but thoroughly 
dependable to the extent of his ability. He was also a 
courteous, discreet gentleman, well calculated to fill the posi- 
tion he so long sustained, under various lessees, of stage man- 
ager. Of the intelligence of a British public his opinion was 
not flattering. " Sir," he would say to me, " you must first tell 
them you are going to do so and so ; you must then tell them 
you are doing it, and then that you have done it ; and then, by 
G — d " (with a slap on his thigh), " perhaps they will under- 
stand you ! " British public, on your honor, as ladies and 
gentlemen, is this true ? Without " indorsing the bill," I will 
only say that his advice was most valuable to young writers. 
Perspicuity is a primary qualification in the plot of a play, and 
its absence cannot be compensated for by either language or 
incident. Mr. and Mrs. Bartley visited the United States — I 
forget in what particular year — but shortly after they were 
fairly in blue water, one of the crew became mutinous, and 
received a very severe cut on the head from, I believe, the 
10 



I46 J. ROBINSON PLANCH E. 

captain, in the presence of the passengers. Mrs. Bartley, who 
was beginning to suffer from the mal de mer, was much 
shocked and alarmed, became very ill, and retreated immedi- 
ately to her cabin, from which she did not emerge again till 
they were almost in sight of port. The first day that she 
ventured on deck the man that she had seen cut down was at 
the wheel. Approaching him with kindly interest, she in- 
quired, "How is your head now?" and received for answer, 
" West and by north, ma'am ! " 

When Bartley first joined the Covent Garden company, 
Fawcett, an excellent actor, was stage-manager, and in pos- 
session, of course, of all the best parts. One day he sent for 
Bartley, and said, " George, I'm going to give you a chance. 
Hamlet is put up for next week, and you shall play the ' First 
Gravedigger.' I've plenty to do, and it is but fair to give you 
a turn. ' Bartley expressed his gratitude. Fawcett shook 
hands with him and walked away, muttering to himself, but 
loud enough for Bartley to hear him, " There's a wind at night 
comes up that cursed grave-trap enough to cut one's vitals 
out ! " 

Charles Farley. 

Charles Farley, who attained the venerable age of eighty- 
seven, is described in a theatrical obituary as a " pantomime- 
arranger." This is doing him scant justice. He was not only 
a good melodramatic actor, but sustained very creditably a line 
of character parts in the plays of Shakespeare and the best of 
our old English comedies — Roderigo, in " Othello," Cloten, in 
" Cymbeline," Osric, in " Hamlet," Cacofogo, in " Rule a Wifo 
and have a Wife," and many others ; notably, although utterly 
ignorant of French, Canton, in " The Clandestine Marriage." 
So little did he know of the language of our lively neighbors, 
that lie is reported to have waited day after day at the doors of 
one of the theatres in Paris in order to witness the first perfor- 
mance of a new grand spectacle, entitled, as he imagined, " Re- 
lache," mistaking the bills with that word only in large letters 
which he saw posted up there, to indicate the production 
of some important novelty. During the visit of the allied 



MADAME VESTRIS. 1 47 

sovereigns to Europe, Farley strolled one afternoon into the 
house of the eminent printsellers, Colnaghi & Co., Pall Mall 
East, to whom he, and all the theatrical profession indeed, were 
deeply indebted for the great and gratuitous assistance so 
liberally rendered to them by those gentlemen in matters oi 
costume and scenery. " What a pity you were not here a little 
sooner, Mr. Farley," said Mr. Dominic Colnaghi to him, as he 
entered. " The Emperor Alexander was standing on this very 
spot not a quarter of an hour ago, looking at that portrait of 
Napoleon " — a very fine one then on view there. " Indeed ! " 
said Farley eagerly ; " and what observation did he make on 
it ? " " He said, ' C'est tres-ressemblant.' " " Ah ! " rejoined 
Farley, with a deep sigh and a mysterious shake of the head, 
" he might well say that ! " My friend Dominic was too 
much of a gentleman to inquire what interpretation his interro- 
gator had given to the important words which had escaped the 
lips of the Emperor of all the Russias. 

Madame Vestris. 

A singular instance occurred of the way in which that 
" wonderful woman " jumped with true feminine felicity, at 
conclusions for which she could not herself account, and 
which to others appeared preposterous. I dined with her and 
Mathews nearly every day, in their room in the theatre, George 
Bartley, the acting manager, making occasionally a fourth. 
One day when I was alone with them, and long before any 
calculation could be fairly made of the ultimate result of the 
season, Madame Vestris said, abruptly, after a short silence, 
" Charles ! we shall not have this theatre next year." " What 
do you mean ? " he and I exclaimed simultaneously. " Simply 
what I say." " But what reason," inquired Mathews, " can 
you possibly have for thinking so ? " " No particular reason ; 
but you'll see." "Have you heard any rumor to that effect," 
I asked. " No ; but we shall not have the theatre." " But 
who on earth will have it then ? " we said, laughing at the idea ; 
for we could imagine no possible competitor likely to pay so 
high a rent. " Charles Kemble," was her answer. " He will 



I48 y. ROBINSON PLANCH&. 

think that his daughter's talent and popularity will be quite 
sufficient, and we shall be turned out of the theatre. But, 
she continued, seeing us still incredulous, " three things may 
happen : Miss Kemble may be ill ; Miss Kemble may not get 
another opera like ' Norma ; ' and Miss Kemble may marry. 7 
Every one of these predictions was fulfilled. The rent not 
being fully paid up according to the conditions of her lease, it 
was declared forfeited ; and Mr. Charles Kemble took the 
theatre himself upon his own shoulders. Just before the sea- 
son commenced, Miss Kemble was taken ill, and the opening 
of the theatre had to be postponed in consequence. The opera 
prepared for her did not prove attractive ; and very shortly 
afterwards she became the wife of Mr. Edward John Sartoris, 
now M. P. for Caermarthenshire. The theatre closed prema- 
turely, and after an abortive attempt of Henry Wallack, and a 
brief and desperate struggle of Bunn, ceased to be a temple 
of the national drama. 

Death of Theodore Hook. 

On the 24th of August, 1842, I lost my ever-kind friend, 
Theodore Hook. His two last notes to me are without date, 
but I well remember the circumstances under which they were 
written. I had a general invitation from him for Sundays, 
which I rarely availed myself of, as we generally had a friend 
or two to dinner ourselves on that only day in the week pro- 
fessional persons — medical men excepted — can count upon 
with security, and a few of our pleasant neighbors would occa- 
sionally drop in in the evening ; but I heard that Hook had 
been ill, and wrote him word that I would run down to see 
him on the afternoon of the following Sunday. I received 
this reply : — 

" FULHAM 

(Blowing a gale of wind). 
" Don't come here next Sunday, for I shan't be at home. Do come 
Sunday week ; and if my house stands through the gale of wind 
which is now shaking it, I shall be delighted. Come at one, and (I 
don't mean a rhyme) have lunch^w* Yours truly, 

T. E. H." 



DEATH OF THEODORE HOOK. 149 

I went, of course, and found him pretty nearly himself again 
— full of fun and anecdote, — but I remarked with regret that 
he ate nothing, but drank tumbler after tumbler of claret. 
His most intimate and attached friend, Mr. Broderip, the 
magistrate — "the Beak," as Hook always introduced him — 
who was present, told me that solid food rarely passed his lips, 
and that he feared the digestive organs were fatally impaired. 

On being pressed to eat a portion at least of a cutlet, he 
merely shook his head, and said, " Apropos of cutlets, I once 
called upon an old lady, who pressed me so urgently to stay 
and dine with her that, as I had no engagement, I could not 
refuse. On sitting down, the servant uncovered a dish which 
contained two mutton chops, and my old friend said, ' Mr. 
Hook, you see your dinner.' 'Thank you, ma'am,' said I ; 'but 
Where's yours f ' " 

Having written to him from St. Leonard's-on-Sea, on some 
private matters which had annoyed me, he wound up his repiy 
in these words : — 

" I have been very ill, and am as you may perceive, scarcely able to 
hold my pen. I wish / was at St. Leonard's-on-Sea to enjoy the 
fresh breezes, and then I would tell you personally, as I now write 
you, that I am vexed at what you communicated, and that I am truly 
yours, Theodore E. Hook. 

" (Hand shaky.) " 



JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 




Charles Mayne Young's Father. 

j)IS father was a London surgeon of considerable emi- 
nence. The late Sir Aston Key, no mean authority, 
told me that he had never seen his equal as a demon- 
strator of anatomy ; and that, as an operator, he be- 
lieved him to have been second only to John Hunter. It is 
painful for the biographer to write disparagingly of a grandfa- 
ther whom he never knew ; yet truth compels him to state that, 
from the concurrent testimony of persons indifferent, as well as 
of those best qualified to form an opinion, he was selfish and 
self-sufficient, profligate by habit, irascible in temper, imperious 
in domestic rule, and utterly callous to the claims of blood and 
affection. In person he was handsome, and in manner impres- 
sive, though in deportment haughtier than became a profes- 
sional man. When he wished to please, he found no difficulty 
in doing so ; for his voice was so melodious, his manners so 
insinuating, and his diction so graceful, that ordinary observers, 
imposed upon by these adventitious accessories,, were apt to 
overlook his errors, and accept him at his own valuation. His 
parts were unquestionably far above mediocrity, and his rhetor- 
ical powers of a high order. An exemplification of that fact 
occurs to me ; for the knowledge of which I am indebted tc the 
late Mr. Shuter. 

Two ruffians were one night discovered in the act of deposit- 
ing a corpse at the door of Thomas Young's anatomical museum. 
They were instantly apprehended and committed for triaL 



154 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

Young, by whom they had been employed, knew they could 
not pay for counsel's aid, and therefore came forward in their 
defense, avowing himself to have been the instigator of the of- 
fense, and they but his instruments. He argued that, though 
they might have infringed the letter of the law, they had done 
violence neither to its spirit nor to the animus of the law-maker. 
That there had been no sacrilegious intention on their part, and 
that the malfaisance complained of on his had been committed 
in the interests of science, and with the object of saving human 
life ! The effect of his appeal on the judge and jury, enhanced 
as it was by his animated action and delivery, was so great, 
that he not only succeeded in obtaining the acquittal of the 
prisoners, but in extorting from the judge the following com- 
pliment in open court : " Mr. Young, few here are ignorant of 
your high reputation as a surgeon ; but after the extraordinary 
display of forensic ability we have just witnessed, you must' 
permit me to add, that if you had bent the powers of your mind 
to the study and practice of the law, there are no heights in the 
legal profession to which you might not have aspired." 

Edmund Kean and Mother Carey. 

During the Christmas vacation, Thomas Young was in the 
habit of giving frequent dinners to his friends and acquaint- 
ance, at which his son Charles was allowed to appear as soon 
as dessert was put upon the table. On one of those occasions 
(when, by the by, one of his lions, Prince Le Boo, was pres- 
ent), as Charles was descending the stairs to the dining-room, 
in his smartest clothes, he saw a slatternly woman seated on 
one of the chairs in the hall, with a boy standing by her side, 
dressed in fantastic garb, with the blackest and most penetra- 
ting eyes he had ever beheld in human head. His first impres- 
sion was that the two were strolling gypsies from Bartholomew 
Fair, who had come for medical advice. 

He was soon undeceived ; for he had no sooner taken his 
place by his father's side, and had heard the servant whisper 
their presence in the hall, than, to his surprise, the master, in- 
stead of manifesting displeasure, smirked and smiled, and with 



CASPAR GRIMANL 1 55 

an air of self-complacent patronage, desired his butler to bring 
in " the boy." On his entry he was taken by the hand, patted 
on the head, and requested to favor the company with a speci- 
men of his histrionic ability. With a self-possession marvel- 
ous in one so young, he stood forth, knitted his brow, hunched 
up one shoulder-blade, and with sardonic grin and husky voice, 
spouted forth Gloster's opening soliloquy in Richard III. He 
then recited selections from some of our minor British poets, 
both grave and gay; danced a hornpipe ; sang songs, both 
comic and pathetic ; and, for fully an hour, displayed such ver 
satility, as to elicit vociferous applause from his auditory, and 
substantial evidence of its sincerity by a shower of crown pieces 
and shillings — a napkin having been opened and spread upon 
the floor for their reception. The accumulated treasures hav- 
ing been poured into the gaping pockets of the lad's trowsers, 
with a smile of gratified vanity and grateful acknowledgment, 
he withdrew, rejoined his tatterdemalion friend in the hall, and 
left the house rejoicing. The door was no sooner closed than 
every one present desired to know the name of the youthful 
prodigy who had so astonished them. The host replied, that 
" This was not the first time he had had him to amuse his 
friends ; that he knew nothing of the lad's history or antece- 
dents ; but that his name was Edmund Kean ; and that of the 
woman who seemed to have the charge of him, and was his 
supposititious mother, Carey." 

Gaspar Grimani. 

Gaspar Grimani was a man of singular ability and erudition. 
As a classical scholar he took no mean rank. He was master 
of seven modern languages ; and his attainments in mathe- 
matics and astronomy were considerable. On the latter sci- 
ence he wrote a work in several volumes, which he was never 
able to publish. His eldest brother being heir to the title and 
estates, his parents dedicated Gaspar to the service of the 
Roman Catholic Church, without at all consulting his feelings 
in the matter. Shortly after he had been ordained, but before 
he had been made a priest, a curious adventure befell him, 



I56 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG, 

which exercised a marked influence over his future life. He was 
riding alone, on an unfrequented road, in the neighborhood 
of a large dense forest. On abruptly turning a corner he saw 
a sight which would have made many put spurs to their horse's 
sides, and gallop oft ; but Grimani was made of different metal. 
He beheld the figure of a man prostate, wounded, bleeding to 
death, and surrounded by a group of angry brigands, whose 
captain he had been, but whom they had risen against and 
murdered. The moment the unhappy wretch, whose life was 
ebbing fast, descried Gaspar Grimani, and saw by his religious 
garb that he was in holy orders, he called to him and implored 
him, for the love of God, to come to him and " confess " him. 
One of the men, seeing him about to dismount from his horse 
with the purpose of doing so, peremptorily bade him " halt ; " 
swearing that, if he moved another yard, he would put a bullet 
through him. Gaspar gently remonstrated with him, but in 
vain. Once more the fast-expiring man piteously appealed to 
him, as he valued his own soul, to come and save his. A 
man of impulse, and heedless of consequences, Grimani sprang 
from his horse, rushed up to the miscreant who had menaced 
him, wrenched his pistol from out his belt, and kneeling by the 
wounded sufferer, supported him with one arm, while with the 
other he presented the pistol at the group around him, and 
with loud and resolute voice commanded them to " stand back,'* 
Impressed by his fearlessness, and awed by his manner, they 
instinctively obeyed him, and retired to a considerable distance 
while the dying man made his confession. Grimani, after 
having prayed with him and given him absolution, received 
him in his arms a corpse. The band drew near. Grimani 
rose as they did so, and, without evincing the slightest particle 
of fear, at once returned the pistol to its owner, while he stood 
calmly with folded arms, awaiting his fate. To his surprise, 
the brigand who had threatened to shoot him approached him 
reverently and thus addressed him : — " Per Bacco ! you are 
the bravest man we ever saw ! We admire you ! We like you ! 
We are astonished at your courage ! We have a proposition to 
make to you. If you will stay with us and be our captain, we 



YOUNG ANL> FffE ELEPHANT. 1 57 

will gladly serve under you ; and we will soon help to put more 
money in your pocket than you will ever earn as a priest." 
Grimani smiled, thanked them for the honor they had done 
him in making the offer, declined it, and rode away without 
receiving the slightest molestation at their hands. 

Young and the Elephant. 

In July, 1 8 10, the largest elephant ever seen in England was 
advertised as "just arrived." As soon as Henry Harris, the 
manager of Covent Garden Theatre, had heard of it, he deter- 
mined, if possible, to obtain it ; for it struck him that if it were 
to be introduced in the new pantomime of " Harlequin Pad- 
menaba," which he was about to produce at great cost, it 
would add greatly to its attraction. Under this impression, 
and before the proprietor of Exeter Change had seen it, he 
purchased it for the sum of 900 guineas. Mrs. Henry John- 
ston was to ride it ; and Miss Parker, the Columbine, was to 
play up to it. Young happened to be one morning at the box- 
office adjoining Covent Garden Theatre, when his ears were 
assailed by a strange and unusual uproar within the walls. 
On asking one of the carpenters the cause of it, he was told 
" it was something going wrong with the elephant : he could 
not exactly tell what." I am not aware what may be the 
usage nowadays ; but then, whenever a new piece had been 
announced for presentation on a given night, and there was 
but scant time for its preparation, a rehearsal would take place 
after the night's regular performance was over, and the audi- 
ence had been dismissed. One such there had been the night 
before my father's curiosity had been roused. As it had been 
arranged that Mrs. Henry Johnston, seated in a howdah on 
the elephant's back, should pass over a bridge in the centre of 
a numerous group of followers, it was thought expedient that 
the unwieldy monster's tractability should be tested. On 
stepping up to the bridge, which was slight and temporary, 
the saga:ious brute drew back his forefeet and refused to 
budge. It is well known as a fact in natural history that the 
eleohant, aware of its unusual bulk, will never trust its weight 



158 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

on any object which is unequal to its support. The stage 
manager, seeing how resolutely the animal resisted every at- 
tempt made to compel or induce it to go over the bridge in 
question, proposed that they should stay proceedings till next 
day, when he might be in a better mood. It was during the 
repetition of the experiment that my father, having heard the 
extraordinary sounds, determined to go upon the stage, and 
see if he could ascertain the cause of them. 

The first sight that met his eyes kindled, his indignation. 
There stood the huge animal, with downcast eyes and flapping 
ears, meekly submitting to blow after blow from a sharp iron 
goad, which his keeper was driving ferociously into the fleshy 
part of his neck at the root of the ear. The floor on which he 
stood was converted into a pool of blood. One of the propri- 
etors, impatient at what lie regarded as senseless obstinacy, 
kept urging the driver to proceed to still severer extremities, 
when Charles Young, who was a great lover of animals, ex- 
postulated with him, went up to the poor, patient sufferer, and 
patted and caressed him ; and when the driver was about to 
wield his instrument again with even still more vigor, he 
caught him by the wrist as in a vice, and stayed his hand from 
further violence. While an angry altercation was going on 
between Young and the man of color, who was his driver, 
Captain Hay, of the Ashelvfao had brought over Chuny in 
his ship, and had petted him greatly on the voyage, came in, 
and begged to know what was the matter. Before a word of 
explanation could be given, the much-wronged creature spoke 
for himself ; for, as soon as he perceived the entrance of his 
patron, he waddled up to him, and, with a look of gentle ap- 
peal, caught hold of his hand with his proboscis, plunged it 
into his bleeding wound, and then thrust it before his eyes. 
The gesture seemed to say, as plainly as if it had been en- 
forced by speech, " See how these cruel men treat Chuny. 
Can you approve of it ? " The hearts of the hardest present 
were sensibly touched by what they saw ; and among them 
that of the gentleman who had been so energetic in promoting 
its harsh treatment. It was under a far better impulse that he 



MRS. SID DONS AS VOLUMNIA. 1 59 

ran out into the street, purchased a few apples at a stall, and 
offered them to him. Chuny eyed him askance, took them, 
threw them beneath his feet, and, when he had crushed them 
to pulp, spurned them from him. Young, who had gone into 
Covent Garden on the same errand as the gentleman who had 
preceded him, shortly after reentered, and also held out to 
him some fruit, when, to the astonishment of the bystanders, 
the elephant ate every morsel, and, after, twined his trunk, 
with studied gentleness, around Young's waist ; marking by 
his action that, though he had resented a wrong, he did not 
forget a kindness. 

It was in the year 18 14 that Harris parted with Chuny to 
Cross, the proprietor of the menagerie at Exeter Change. 
One of the purchaser's first acts, was to send Charles Young 
a life ticket of admission to his exhibition ; and it was one of 
his innocent little vanities, when passing through the Strand 
with any friend, to drop in on Chuny, pay him a visit in his 
den, and show the intimate relations which existed between 
them. The tragic end of the poor creature must be within the 
recollection of many of my readers. From some cause un- 
known, he went mad ; and it took 152 shots, discharged by a 
detachment of the Guards, to dispatch him. 

Mrs. Siddons as Volumnia. 

In 18 1 2, Kemble revived and adapted, with a splendor, in 
those days unparalleled, the play of " Julius Caesar." No piece 
was ever more effectively cast : Brutus had for its representa- 
tive, John Kemble ; Cassius, Young ; Anthony, Charles Kem- 
ble ; Casca, Terry ; First Citizen, Simmons ; and Portia, Mrs. 
Siddons. I have never spoken with any one fortunate enough 
to have seen that play rendered, as it then was, who has not 
admitted it to have been the greatest intellectual recreation he 
ever enjoyed. 

It was really difficult to believe that one had not been trans- 
ported while in a state of unconsciousness, from the purlieus 
of Bow Street and the vicinity of Covent Garden Market, to 
the glories of the Capitol, and the very heart of the Julian 



l6o JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

Forum ; so complete, in all its parts, was the illusion of the 
scene. When but six years old, I saw the play on the first 
night of its representation ; and I was allowed to see it again 
in 1817, with the same cast, minus Mrs. Siddons. And, al- 
though I was then but eleven, the impression left upon mj; 
mind has never been effaced. If it appear a thing incredible, 
that any play, however well put on the stage, however gor- 
geous its accessories, and however spirited the acting, should 
have left definite and durable traces on the brain of a child of 
such tender years, it must be mentioned that he had not only 
inherited a turn for the stage, but had read and re-read the 
play in question over and over again, had committed its chief 
speeches to memory, had rehearsed them by heart, and often 
represented the characters before small but select audiences, 
composed of all the squabs, bolsters, and pillows available in 
the house. The consequence was, that when I saw " Julius 
Caesar " for the second time, I attended to the stage-business, 
and more particularly to the by-play, with an intentness and 
inquiring interest, which it amuses me, even now, to recall. 
Owing to my reproductions, in the privacy of my little bed- 
room, of the effects I had seen and heard on the boards of the 
great theatre, I was tolerably qualified, in my own opinion at 
least, to distinguish between the comparative merits of each 
actor. And there was, perhaps, nothing which elicited more 
of my boyish admiration, than the fidelity with which the play- 
ers of prominent parts indirectly indicated the peculiar idio- 
syncrasies of each (and this too before they had opened their 
lips) by their very mien and movement. Ordinary actors, on 
first making their entrance in the second scene of the first act, 
march in procession towards the course, with all the precision 
of the Grenadier Guards, stepping in time to the martial music 
which accompanies them. And, even on the part of leading 
actors, I have noted a tameness of deportment (as stilted as if 
they were automata) until speech has stirred them into action. 
In the play I am writing of, as then enacted, one would have 
imagined that the invariable white toga, beautiful as it is when 
properly worn and tastefully adjusted, would have rendered it 



MRS. SID DONS AS VOLUMNIA. l6l 

difficult, at first, for any but frequenters of the theatre to dis- 
tinguish, in the large number of the dramatis personce on the 
stage, John Kemble from Daniel Terry, or Charles Young from 
Charles Kemble. Whereas, I feel persuaded that any intelli- 
gent observer, though he had never entered the walls of a 
theatre before, if he had studied the play in his closet, would 
have had no difficulty in recognizing in the calm, cold, self-con- 
tained stoical dignity of John Kemble's walk, the very ideal of 
Marcus Brutus ; or in the pale, wan, austere, " lean and hun- 
gry look " of Young, and in his quick and nervous pace, the irri- 
tability and restless impetuosity of Caius Cassius ; or, in the 
handsome, joyous face, and graceful tread of Charles Kemble, 
< — his pliant body bending forward in courtly adulation of 
"Great Caesar," — Mark Antony himself; while Terry's sour, 
sarcastic countenance would not more aptly portray " quick- 
mettled " Casca, than his abrupt and hasty stamp upon the 
ground, when Brutus asked him "What had chanced that 
Caesar was so sad?" In support of my theory of the. mute 
eloquence of gait and movement, Charles Young was wont to 
speak in terms of almost wanton admiration, of a bold point he 
saw Mrs. Siddons once make, while playing the comparatively 
inferior part of Volumnia for her brother's benefit. 

In the second scene of the second act of " Coriolanus," after 
the victory of the battle of Corioli, an ovation in honor of the 
victor was introduced with great and imposing effect by John 
Kemble. On reference to the stage directions of my father's 
interleaved copy, I find that no fewer than 240 persons marched, 
in stately procession, across the stage. In addition to the rec- 
ognized dramatis persona, thirty-five in number, there were 
vestals, and lictors with their fasces, and soldiers with the spolia 
opima, and sword-bearers, and standard-bearers, and cup- 
bearers, and senators, and silver eagle-bearers, with the S. P. 
Q. R. upon them, and trumpeters, and drummers, and priests, 
and dancing-girls, etc., etc. 

Now, in this procession, and as one of the central figures in 
it, Mrs. Siddons had to walk. Had she been content to follow 
in the beaten track of those who had gone before her, she 



l62 JULIAN CHARLES YQUJSTG. 

would have marched across the stage, from right to left, with 
the solemn, stately, almost funereal, step conventional. But, 
at the time, as she often did, she forgot her own identity. She 
was no longer Sarah Siddons, tied down to the directions of 
the prompter's book ; she broke through old traditions — she 
recollected that, for the nonce she was Volumnia, the proud 
mother of a proud son and conquering hero. So that, when it 
was time for her to come on, instead of dropping each foot at 
equi-distance in its place, with mechanical exactitude, and in 
cadence subservient to the orchestra ; deaf to the guidance 
of her woman's ear, but sensitive to the throbbings of her 
haughty mother's heart, with flashing eye and proudest smile, 
and head erect, and hands pressed firmly on her bosom, as if 
to repress by manual force its triumphant swellings, she tow- 
ered above all around, and rolled, and almost reeled across the 
stage ; her very soul, as it were, dilating, and rioting in its 
exultation ; until her action lost all grace, and, yet, became so 
true to nature, so picturesque, and so descriptive, that pit and 
gallery sprang to their feet, electrified by the transcendent 
execution of the conception. 

The Gait proclaims the Man. 

Shakespeare makes Polonius tell his son Laertes, that " the 
apparel oft proclaims the man." But a greater than Shakes- 
peare — Solomon — tells us "that man's attire and gait show 
what he is." And true it is, that self-sufficient men, bashful 
men, energetic, phlegmatic, choleric, sanguine, and melancholy 
men, may each and all be known by their attire and "gait." 
Of the force and justice of this axiom, I am tempted to 
give an appropriate, though a ludicrous confirmation. Theo- 
dore Hook was one day standing on Ludgate Hill, in conver- 
sation with Dubois, a well-known wag of the Stock Exchange, 
and one or two other kindred spirits ; when their attention 
was called to an aldermanic-looking person, " with fair round 
belly with good capon lined," strutting along like a peacock, 
with double chin in air, his chest puffed out, and a stride of 
portentous self-importance. Hook, with his characteristic au« 



MLLE. DUCHESN01S. 163 

dacity, immediately crossed over the street, went up to him, 
took off his hat deferentially, 

11 And in a bondman's key, 
With bated breath and whispering humbleness," 

thus saluted him : " I really beg your pardon, Sir, for the lib- 
erty I take in stopping you. But I should feel very much 
obliged to you, and so would some friends of mine over the 
way, if you would kindly gratify a curiosity, which we find irre- 
pressible. We have been observing you, as you walked, with 
very lively admiration ; and we cannot divine who you can be ? 
Arrftyou somebody very particular ? " Unjustifiably impudent, 
as this question was, at all events, it shows that the interroga- 
tor's inference of the man's character was deduced from his 
" gait." Even from an anecdote as trivial as this we may learn 
that, if it be the conscientious actor's aim to show " the very 
age and body of the time his form and pressure," he cannot too 
microscopically analyze and imitate the slightest peculiarities 
which " mark the man." 

Mlle. Duchesnois. 

Dined with Fabre, and after went to the Theatre Frangais 
to see Mlle. Duchesnois in Merope. She is supremely ugly ; 
and yet she does not spare the spectator's eyes, but gives 
them as full a view of her features as she can. Through all 
the range of her feelings she seems to have no consciousness 
of her great misfortune ; but relies implicitly on the effect 
of play of countenance on the feelings of her audience. I 
suppose she is right, for they seemed as little alive to her 
hideous aspect as she was herself. In spite of this, it would 
be unjust not to admit that she feels earnestly herself. But — 
but — she did not touch me. 

She seems to possess more mind, and stronger feeling, too, 
than Mlle. Georges ; but she has the fault which pervades all 
French tragic acting — the sentiment is never approfondi. 
Greatly as I am charmed with the actors of genteel comedy 
in Paris, I think the tragic actors much inferior to our own 
in the assumption of individual character. They seem all tc 



164 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

move in one groove. Their gestures and tones are all stereo* 
typed. They never lead one on to sympathize with the sor- 
rows they simulate, or with the heroism they feign. With a 
fond disposition to like them, I shall return home, not at all 
put out of countenance by what I have witnessed as yet." 

Kemble's Farewell. 

In 181 7 I went with Mr. Isaac Pocock, the author of " The 
M ; ller and his Men," to see John Philip Kemble bid farewell. 
Young had not only an admiration for Kemble as an actor, but 
felt gratitude to him as a man for having reflected honor on 
the profession by his moral conduct in it. The last time they 
played together, which was in " Julius Caesar," Kemble, after 
the play, entered Young's dressing-room, and presented him 
with several properties which he had worn in favorite char- 
acters, and begged him to keep them in memory of their 
having fought together, alluding to the battle near Sardis, in 
which, as Brutus and Cassius, they had been just engaged. 
" Well," he said, " we've often had high words together on 
the stage, but never off." On Young saying something to 
him, which touched him, he suddenly caught hold of his 
hand, wrung it in his, and then hurried from the room, say- 
ing : — 

" For this present 
I would not, so with Jove I might entreat you 
Be any further moved- '' 

Young and Kean. 

The year 1822 was an important one for Young. At this 
time, his long-standing engagement with Covent Garden hav- 
ing expired, the managers proposed to renew it, on conditions 
to which he refused to accede. For many years the combined 
attractions of John and Charles Kemble, Mrs. Siddons, Miss 
O'Neil, Charles Young, and William Macready, had rendered 
Covent Garden the favorite resort of the lovers of the legiti- 
mate drama. To so low an ebb indeed was the exchequer of 
the rival house reduced, that its committee gravely entertainec 



YOUNG AND KEAN 1 65 

the idea of closing, till " the tide in their affairs " should turn 
and propel them on to better fortune, when Edmund Kean's 
sudden and unparalleled success revived their hopes and re- 
filled their coffers. Of course, in proportion, as the star of one 
house was in the ascendant, that of the other began to wane. 
A great part, therefore, of the receipts of Covent Garden were 
diverted from their ordinary channel, and, in consequence, its 
managers, on purely financial grounds and in self-defense, felt 
constrained to reduce the salaries of the principal actors on 
their staff. It was in the prosecution of this intention that 
they proposed to reduce Young's salary from £2$ a. week to 
^20, and from three months' vacation for provincial tours to 
two. If one cannot blame the managers for consulting their 
own interests, neither can one wonder that the actor, in the 
prime of life, and in the zenith of his fame, should have re- 
fused to accept diminished remuneration for his labor. This 
questionable economy proved eventually as detrimental to its 
authors as it was beneficial to its subject ; for no sooner was 
it known that Charles Young's connection with Covent Garden 
was at an end than the manager of Drury Lane waited on him 
and offered him ^50 a night for nine months (three nights a 
week) ; three months' leave for country work, and a clear 
benefit, provided that he would consent to play with Kean, in 
certain stipulated pieces, exchanging parts with him on alter- 
nate nights. Thus Kean was to play Othello, and Young 
I ago ; and the next night Young Othello, Kean I ago. The 
same rule was to hold good with regard to every piece in 
which their joint talents were to be exercised. One hundred 
and fifty pounds per week was a wonderful rise from twenty- 
five ; and proved a bait too alluring to resist. Bills were 
posted all over London, advertising the early appearance on 
the same boards of the two men who had long been regarded 
as the representatives of two opposite schools of art. The 
wide-spread excitement produced, few but the habitues of the 
theatre in those times could believe. Places were secured at 
the box-office five and six weeks beforehand, and the compara- 
tive merits of the two histrionic athletes were canvassed at 



1 66 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

fashionable tables with as much vivacity and warmth of tem- 
per as the far more important political questions of the hour. 
Kean was the Coryphaeus of a new school, Young of the old. 
Kean was supposed to have had the mantle of George Fred- 
erick Cooke descend upon him, Young was looked on as the 
disciple of Kemble. Kean's forte was known to be the vig- 
orous delineation of the stronger passions — jealousy, malig- 
nity, revenge. Young's specialite was allowed to be dignity, 
pathos, and declamation. 

On the very first night of their appearance in the same play 
1 was present ; on the very last night of their playing together 
1 was present ; and in every piece in which they acted together 
I have seen them. On each and every one of these occasions 
I should find it difficult to determine which carried off the 
palm. The writer of the last published life of Edmund Kean 
has been pleased to write in terms of measureless contempt of 
Charles Young's powers as an artist. He has a perfect right 
to his opinion ; but I doubt if his hero, had he been alive, 
would have indorsed it, or admitted either the justice or the 
good taste of his criticism. And I venture to think so for this 
reason. Both the rival candidates for histrionic fame were en- 
gaged on terms of perfect equality. Each received exactly the 
same salary, each was in turn to play the same parts : and had 
the manager thought there was such vast disparity between 
the qualifications of the two candidates, he would never have 
given both the same terms. If Kean had considered himself 
so far superior to Young in public estimation, he would have 
been indignant at his receiving the* same salary as himself, and 
would have expected his name to be printed in the bills in 
larger characters than his rival's. To show that Kean did not 
think as meanly of Young as his secretary-biographer seems 
to have done, I may mention that on the first night of their 
playing together, while Young was in his dressing-room re- 
ceiving congratulations on his success from " troops of 
friends," Kean was storming about in search of Price, the 
manager, and vowing that he would not give up Othello the 
next night to Young. On Price's telling him that he was 



YOUNG AND KEAN 1 67 

bound by the terms of his agreement to do so, he exclaimed, 
in violent anger, " I don't care ! if he plays after me the same 
part I have just played, I will throw up my engagement, and 
you may seek your redress in a court of law." On Price's 
trying to pacify him, and asking him what had caused him to 
think so differently in the evening from what he had done in 
the morning, he said, " I had never seen Young act. Every 
one about me for several years has told me he could not hold 
a farthing rushlight to me ; but he can ! He is an actor ; and 
though I flatter myself he could not act Othello as I do, yet 
what chance should I have in Iago after him, with his persona] 

advantages and his d d musical voice ? I don't believe he 

could play Jaffier as well as I can, but fancy me in Pierre 
after him ; I tell you what," said he, " Young is not only an 
actor, such as I did not dream him to have been, but he is a 
gentleman. Go to him, then, from me, and say that, if he will 
allow me to retain Othello, and to keep to Jaffier, if I succeed 
in it, I shall esteem it as a personal obligation conferred upon 
me. Tell him he has just made as great a hit in Iago as I ever 
did in Othello." 

Young was anxious to oblige Price, knowing how seriously 
refusal on his part would affect the interests of the treasury, 
and unhesitatingly complied with Kean's request. 

My impression as to the comparative powers of Kean and 
Young may fairly enough be regarded with suspicion. My 
judgment will be supposed to be biased by filial partiality. 
But I never was a blind admirer of my father's theatrical 
talent. It is, therefore, in no narrow spirit of partisanship, 
but under deliberate and impartial conviction that I shall try 
to distinguish between them, and award to each his due. 
Each had certain physical requisites which especially qualified 
him for his vocation. Young had a small, keen, brown, pene- 
trating eye, overshadowed by a strongly-defined and bushy 
eyebrow. Kean's eye was infinitely finer ; it was fuller, 
slacker, and more intense. When kindled by real passion 
off the stage, or by simulated passion on, it gleamed with 
such scorching lustre as literally to make those who stood 



[68 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

beneath its rays quail. In this feature, beyond all question, 
he had an immense superiority over Young. In figure, 
stature, and deportment, Young had the advantage over 
Kean ; for he had height, which Kean had not ; and, though 
Young's limbs were not particularly well moulded, he moved 
them gracefully ; and his head, and throat, and bust, were 
classically moulded. Kean in his gait shuffled. Young trod 
the boards with freedom. Young's countenance was equally 
well adapted for the expression of pathos or of pride ; thus, in 
such parts as Hamlet, Beverley, The Stranger, Daran, Pierre, 
Zanga, and Cassius, he looked the men he represented. 
Kean's variable and expressive countenance, and even the 
insignificance of his person, rendered him the very type of 
a Shylock, a Richard, or a Sir Giles Overreach. Even his 
voice, which was harsh and husky (except in low and pathetic 
passages such as " the farewell " in " Othello," in which it was 
very touching), so far from detracting from its impressiveness, 
rather added to it. Young's voice, on the other hand, was 
full bodied, rich, powerful, and capable of every variety of 
modulation, and therefore in declamatory power he was 
greatly superior to Kean, and Kemble too. Beautiful in 
face and person as Kemble was, and great as he was as an 
actor, his asthma put him at a signal disadvantage with my 
father in speeches where volume of voice and the rapid de- 
livery of long sentences was needed. The great effects which 
Kean produced upon his audience were the spontaneous effu- 
sions of real genius. Young's happiest hits were the result 
of natural sensibility, quickness of apprehension, and study. 
Kean dazzled his audience by coruscations of fancy, and the 
vivid light which he shed on passages of which the meaning 
was obscure. Young hardly ever astonished ; but, with the 
unprejudiced, rarely failed to please. Kean's acting, as a rule, 
was unequal, negligent, and slipshod. He seemed to be 
husbanding his powers for a point, or for an outburst of im- 
passioned feeling. Young's conceptions were good and truth- 
ful, and were harmoniously sustained. I have heard my father 
say that the passages on which Kean had bestowed most 



YOUNG AND KEAN. 1 69 

pains, and which were chastely and beautifully delivered, he 
never got a hand for ; while his delivery of those which, to 
use his own phrase, caused " the house to rise to him," were 
in bad taste and meretricious. Had he been content to follow 
the leadings of his better judgment, he would have scorned to 
pander to the ignorant appetites of the groundlings ; and he 
would have been more than repaid by earning golden opinions 
from the more judicious few. In declaring my own opinion I 
have no desire to inoculate others with it. But I should be 
disingenuous if I did not avow, in the teeth of all that has 
been said and written, that I hold Kean to have been rather a 
surprising actor than a legitimate one. I humbly conceive 
that an actor of the highest excellence, though an artist, 
should conceal his art (ars est celare artem), adhere rigidly to 
nature, and never try to improve upon it. Now, Kean, not 
satisfied with lqoking, thinking, and feeling, as his original 
would have looked, and thought, and felt, was wont to super- 
add points of character which he thought would render his 
impersonation more effective. John Kemble never took such 
liberties, and still less Mrs. Siddons. She never indulged in 
imagination at the expense of truth. So anxious was she to 
adhere to accuracy, that it is well known that when she had to 
play Constance in " King John" she would speak to no one, but 
would seat herself between the wings and listen to the mach- 
inations of John and Philip, the better to realize her wrongs, 
and vent, with greater force and fidelity, her sense of them. 
I am far from denying that Kean had genius ; but it was fitful, 
wayward, and ill-regulated ; and he stooped to unworthy means 
to obtain applause. Let me try to make my meaning more 
intelligible. Braham was not merely a splendid vocalist ; but 
he was a scientific musician. No man understood better, or 
more thoroughly appreciated in others, purity of style ; yet no 
man oftener violated the canons of good taste. For this 
reason I cannot call him a legitimate singer. I have heard 
him sing the best sacred music at the house of friends whom 
he knew to be refined and fastidious musicians, and then his 
rendering of Handel has been glorious and worthy of his 



I70 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

theme. I have heard him, at an oratorio at the theatre, the 
very next night, sing the same airs to a miscellaneous audi- 
ence, and so overlay the original composition with florid intei - 
polations as entirely to distract the listener's attention from 
the simplicity and solemnity of the theme. This violation of 
propriety was attributable to the fact of his having observed, 
that, a display of flexible vocalization always brought down 
thunder from the gods in the gallery ; and therefore he was 
tempted by the greed of clap-trap applause to sacrifice his 
own convictions of propriety to the demands of the vulgar and 
unenlightened. It was the same depraved taste that young 
amateurs, captivated by the vibrato passages of Rubini, in 
which, by the by he never indulged without a purpose, would 
insert them into every song they sang, though there was 
nothing in the words to justify their introduction. In like 
manner, when Kean discovered that his imitation of the 
hysterical sob under powerful agitation caused fine ladies to 
faint, and Byron to weep, from nervous sympathy, he was 
perpetually indulging in it, not only when it was inappropriate, 
but where its manifestation became absolutely ludicrous. No 
man in his sober hours knew better than Kean, that in con- 
descending to such small trickery he was prostituting his art 
to an ignoble vanity ; for one night when he had been playing 
before a very intelligent audience, and had been indulging in 
the propensity referred to, and had been lustily hissed in con- 
sqeuence, he whispered to Ralph Wewittzer, as he retreated 
behind the scenes, " By Jove, old fellow ! they've found me 
out. It won't do any more. I must drop my hysterics ! " 

Anecdotes of Young. 

He> was always very glad to hear good preaching ; and when 
residing at Brighton, in old age, was a constant attendant on 
the ministry of Mr. Sortain. Mr. Bernal Osborne told me 
that, one Sunday morning, he was shown into the same pew 
with my father, whom he knew. He was struck with his devo- 
tional manner during the prayers, and by his wrapt attention 
during the sermon. But he found himself unable to maintain 



ANECDOTES CF YOUNG. \J\ 

his gravity when, as the preacher paused to take breath after a 
long and eloquent outburst, the habits of the actor's former life 
betrayed themselves, and he uttered, in a deep undertone, the 
old familiar " Bravo." 

He was sitting at dinner next a lady of rank and considerable 
ability, who was rather prone to entangle her neighbors at table 
in discussions on subjects in which she was well " up," when 
she suddenly appealed from the gentleman on her right to my 
father, who was on her left, and asked him if he would be kind 
enough to tell her the date of the Second Punic War. He, 
who had not the remotest idea whether it was 218 before Christ, 
or 200 after, and who was too honest to screen his ignorance 
under the plea of forgetfulness, turned to her and said, in his 
most tragic tones, " Madam, I don't know anything about the 
Punic War ; and, what is more, I never did. My inability to 
answer your question has wrung from me the same confession 
which I once heard made by a Lancashire farmer, with an air 
of great pride, when appealed to by a party of his friends in a 
commercial room : ' I tell ye what, in spite of all your brag- 
ging, I'll wedger (wager) I'm th' ignorantest man i' coom- 
pany.' " 

He was once dining at the house of a well-known nobleman, 
when a fashionable scion of the aristocracy, as if bent on in- 
sulting him, began to inveigh, in terms of more than ordinary 
rancor, on the degradations of the stage, and to insist perti- 
naciously, on the invariably vicious lives of actresses. Charles 
Young admitted that there was, unhappily, too much truth in 
his charges, but humbly submitted that they were too sweep- 
ing, and required qualification. " They are all alike ! " was the 
retort. " Unhappily," replied my father, " a harshly-judging 
world, which winks at, and countenances, by its presence, suc- 
cessful vice in high places, has nothing but the cold shoulder 
and the harsh epithet for many whom destitution has driven, 
first, to despair, and then to evil courses." He then cited the 
honored names of the late Countess of Derby, Countess of 
Craven, Countess of Essex, Lady Thurlow, and Lady Beecher, 
as instances of stainless characters, who had passed through 



172 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

the furnace of temptation and come forth scathless. One lady, 
whose life and conduct had been from her childhood, as an 
open book, to Young, was then assailed by this gentleman, in 
the most unscrupulous manner. He boasted of his own famil- 
iarity with her, in terms so coarse that the indignant player 
rose from the table, uttering these words before he left the 
room : " If, sir, you will prove the truth of your assertion, I 
will tender you, in the presence of these same gentlemen, the 
most abject apology on which they can insist ; if you do not, 
whenever I hear your name I will brand it as that of a calum- 
niator and braggart." Bowing, then, politely to his host, he left 
the room, expecting that the matter would not end there. How- 
ever, he never heard more from the gentleman in question. 

Young and the Magdalen. 

On one of the very foggy nights of November, as Charles 
Young was stepping out of the stage door of Covent Garden 
Theatre, on his way home (in such weather, he preferred brav- 
ing the perils of the trottoir on foot to those of the pave in a 
hackney coach), he heard the link-boy, whose aid on such 
nights was indispensable, apply abusive epithets to one of the 
many Circes w T ho used to hang on the skirts of the great the- 
atres, and saw him push her rudely aside into the gutter. 
Young angrily remonstrated with him on his unmanly vio- 
lence, and turned to look at the object of his ill-usage. She 
bore herself so meekly, and cast so sad and deprecating a look 
at him, that he called her to his side, snatched the link from 
the boy, and bade him follow, while he spoke to her. The di- 
rect and artless way in which she replied to his questions, the 
diffidence of her manners, and the plaintive accents of her 
voice, encouraged him to hope that she was not yet so har- 
dened in vice as to be irreclaimable ; that, in short, she had 
been the reluctant victim of circumstances rather than a vol- 
unteer in the ways of sin. He gave her half a crown and his 
card, at the same time (with his address), and invited her to 
come to him the next morning at ten o'clock. She courtesied 
her acknowledgments, and forthwith vanished in the fog. The 



A SCOTCH PRAYER. 1 73 

link -boy resumed his torch and his office, and, casting a fa- 
miliar grin behind him, preceded his employer, and pioneered 
him safely home. 

At the hour appointed on the following morning the young 
woman made her appearance. The particulars of the interview 
I never heard pass from my father's lips ; in fact, the poor 
Magdalen's errors were never once alluded to by him to any 
one. From what I know of her story as told me forty years 
ago by a friend of her own, she was in the first instance blame- 
less j for she was no consenting party to her own undoing. 
Outraged by a villain, whose statement it was her father's inter- 
est to prefer to hers (he was the squire of the village in which 
she had been born, and was her father's landlord), she was 
disowned, thrust from the door, and flung penniless upon the 
streets. 

As soon as Young, after rigid inquiry, had verified her state- 
ments, he offered to insure her against penury, if she would 
promise to retire to some secluded spot and try to employ her 
remaining days usefully and virtuously. For two-and-thirty 
years — in short, until the day of her death — her annuity was 
paid to her quarterly, without fail. She settled in a neat little 
cot in Bakewell, in Derbyshire, where she led not only a most 
respectable but a most useful life ; for, out of her own slender 
pittance, she always found something to spare for those still 
poorer than herself ; and wherever sickness or sorrow entered, 
in that house was she a willing and a welcome visitant. So 
prudently did she administer the funds at her disposal, that 
she not only died owing no man anything, but left upwards of 
twenty pounds behind her to defray her funeral expenses. The 
last act of this poor Magdalen's life was to raise her emaciated 
hands and invoke a blessing on her benefactor's head. 

A Scotch Prayer. 

Among the very few papers which my father left behind him 
I found the following. I think the prayer quoted sufficiently 
characteristic to justify insertion. 

" There is no class of persons more truly devout than the 



174 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

shepherds of Scotland. Among them the exercise of family 
worship is never neglected. It is always gone about with de- 
corum ; but, formality being a thing desj. ised by them, there 
are no compositions so truly original, " occasionally for rude 
eloquence, and not unfrequently for a plain and somewhat un- 
becoming familiarity. 

" One of the most notable men for this sort of homely fireside 
eloquence was Adam Scott, of Upper Dalgleish. I had an 
uncle who herded with him, and from him I had many quota- 
tions from Adam Scott's prayers. Here is a short sample. 

" i We parteeclarly thank Thee for thy great gudeness to 
Meg ; and that it ever cam into your head to tak ony thought 
o' sic a useless bow-wow as her [alluding to a little girl of his 
who had been miraculously saved from drowning]. For Thy 
mercy's sake — for the sake o' Thy puir sinfu' creeturs now 
addressing Thee in their ain shilly-shally way ; and, for the 
sake o' mair than we daur weel name to Thee, hae mercy on 
our Rob. Ye ken YourseF, he's a wild mischievous callant, 
and thinks nae mair o' committing sin than a dog does o' lick- 
ing a dish. But put Thy hook intil his nose, and Thy bridle 
intil his gab, and gar him come back to Thee, wi' a jerk, that 
he'll no forget the langest day he has to live. Dinna forget 
puir Jamie, who's far awa frae us the night. Keep Thy aim o' 
power about him, and, ech Sirs, I wish ye wad endow him wi* 
a little spunk and smeddum to act for his sell ; for if Ye dinna, 
he'll be but a bauchle i' this warld, and a backsitter i' the next. 
Thou hast added ane to our family. [N. B. — One of his sons 
had just married against his approbation.] So has been Thy 
will. It wad never hae been mine. But, if it is of Thee, do 
Thou bless the connection. But, if the fule hath done it out 
o' carnal desire, against a' reason and credit, may the cauld 
rain o' adversity settle in his habitation.' " 

A French Letter. 

The next letter will tell its own tale. It has not the date of 
the year in which it was written ; but the original, which was 
sent to a friend of my father's, was given him by the propei 
owner as a curiosity. 



A FRENCH LETTER. 1 75 

" C D s Priory, Aug 27 

till Sept 10 that I shall go at Lady E F. 

My dear E . — I am shameful to have not had the 

pleasure to entertain you since you have with disdain abandon 
London ; but the respect to which I am indebted for your eld- 
est sister had oblige me to think of her Ladyship before you. 
i hope that you have a better weather during your excursions 
on the lacs than that we have here ; for almost every day the 
tunder is rolling upon our head with noise that should faint 
you, being as Toward as a turkey ; but what is more tiresome 
is the lamentations of peoples, which seeing the rains fall all 
the days, predict us with famine, plage, and civil wars, by the 
scarcity of bread, but it is a great error, for the harvest look 
very well. Be not surpriz'd i write so perfectly well in Eng- 
lish, but since i am here, i speak and hear speaking all the 
day English ; and during the nights if some rats or mouses 
trouble me, i tell them Go Ion, and they obey, understanding 
perfectly my English. Sir G e is suffering with a rheu- 
matism. Lady H e O who have the pretension to be 

a very good Physitien, but who is very ignorant, after that he 
have yesterday well breakfast, has given him a physic, and 
after he have dined she give him another, and she desire that 
he take a walk, au clair de la lune, in place of to be near good 
fire. No : a dog or cat would be more prudent. Before yes • 
terday, the brother having eat and drank too much, and being 
tormented with a strong indigestion, my lady gave him 8 grains 
of James Powder, the unhappy brother was near to die, and 
one was obliged to send to a physitien at Shelford, who arriv- 
ing, found him so well, that he judged it best to wait if the 
nature would save him or not ; but happily, being a strong 

nature, he was restored. Lady H e, the best of women 

is the worst of Physitien. She had killed some year ago a 
superb ox with James Powder ; and, on another occasion, 
having received 24 turkeys very fatigued to have walked to 
foot a too long journey, she contrive to refresh them to give 
them some huile de castor; but 12 of that number died, and 
the rest did look melancholy, so long as they did live, i have 



I76 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

receive at this moment a letter from Lady S n. i put my 

thanks at her feet as the post go at 2 o'clock, i have not time 
to write to her ladyship, but i will comply soon with the liberty 

she gave me. Be sure that I have not forgot Lady S n in 

my prayers, though not so good as i could wish indeed. Be- 
lieve the faithful friendship that i feel for you, my dear sister- 
in-law, since that you were so much high than my finger. Write 
me often and my old wife. Believe me that i love a friendly 
letter more than a purse of guineas. Yours, 

" COMTE E)E C Z." 

The Youngs at Abbotsford. 

In the year 1821, being considered too old to remain longer 
with advantage at a private school, and too young for admis- 
sion at Oxford, my father, who had been assured that my 
youth (I was fifteen) would not disqualify me for admission 
into the Scotch University of St. Andrew's, wrote to Walter 
Scott to ask him his opinion on the subject. He replied that, 
though he had a very high one, he would rather my father did 
not take any decisive step until he had seen his son-in-law 
Lockhart, who had greater familiarity with the place than any 
he could boast. To this end he proposed that we should go 
and stay a few days at Abbotsford. Before describing the visit, 
I may as well state the result of it. It was arranged that I 
should pass a three years' course at St. Andrew's ; but as 
" the term " did not commence for three or four months, that 
I should spend the interim under the care of a Dr. Gillespie, 
a personal friend of Lockhart's, a joint contributor with him to 
" Blackwood's Magazine," an excellent scholar, and the son- 
in-law of Dr. John Hunter, the Professor of Humanity at St. 
Andrew's. 

We left Edinburgh the day before we were expected at 
Abbotsford, in an open carriage, for Melrose. There we 
dined and slept. Shortly after eight o'clock next morning we 
proceeded by invitation, to breakfast at Abbotsford. As we 
drew near the house, which had been designated " a romance 
in stone and lime," the thought of soon beholding the Great 



THE YOUNGS AT ABBOTSFORD. I J J 

Magician in " his habit as he lived," caused my heart to throb 
high with joy — a joy not altogether unmixed with awe. 

As we turned into the gate, and were being driven round 
towards the stables, my father jogged my elbow, and told me 
to look to the right. On doing so, I perceived, at a table in a 
window, a figure busily engaged in writing, which was none 
other than the Wizard's self. I saw his hand glibly gliding 
over the pages of his paper — the hand whose unwearied ac- 
tivity had dispensed pleasure to so many thousands — the 
hand whose daily perseverance had so excited the astonish- 
ment of its owner's opposite neighbor x when he lived in Castle 
Street, Edinburgh — the hand which, years after, when his 
daughter put the pen into it, refused its wonted office. 

As soon as we had disincumbered ourselves of our luggage 
and our wrappers, we were ushered into a handsome dining- 
room, in which the breakfast equipage was set, and the loud- 
bubbling urn was emitting volumes of steam. The party 
gathered there together consisted of Lady Scott, Miss Scott, 
Charles Scott, and his friend Mr. Surtees. 

It was not long before we heard the eager tread of a stamp- 
ing heel resounding through the corridor, and in another sec- 
ond the door was flung open, and in limped Scott himself. 
Although eight-and-forty years have passed away since that 
memorable morning, the great man's person is as palpably 
present to me as it then was when in the flesh. His light blue, 
waggish eye, sheltered, almost screened, by its overhanging 
penthouse of straw-colored bushy brows, his scant, sandy- 
colored hair, the Shakespearian length of his upper lip, his 
towering Pisgah of a forehead, which gave elevation and dig- 
nity to a physiognomy otherwise deficient in both, his abrupt 
movements, the mingled humor, urbanity, and benevolence of 
his smile, all recur to me with startling reality. He was 
dressed in a green cut-away coat with brass buttons, drab 
vest, trowsers, and gaiters, with thick shoes on his feet, and a 
sturdy staff in his hand. He looked like a yeoman of the 
better class ; but his manners bespoke the ease, self-posses- 

1 Vide Lockhart's Life of Scott- 



I78 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

sion, and courtesy of a high-bred gentleman. Nothing could 
exceed the winning cordiality of his welcome. After wringing 
my father's hand, he laid his own gently on my shoulders, and 
asked my Christian name. As soon as he heard it, he ex- 
claimed with emphasis — " Why, whom is he called after ? " 
" It is a fancy name in memoriam of his mother, compounded 
of her two names, Julia Ann." " Well ! it is a capital name 
for a novel, I must say." 

This circumstance would be too trivial to mention, were it 
not, that, in the very next novel which appeared " by the Au- 
thor of Waverly," the hero's name was Julian. I allude, of 
course, to " Peveril of the Peak." 

We sat down at once to breakfast ; such a one as I had 
never seen before, and never have seen since. It reminded 
me of a certain one at Tillietudlam given by a certain Lady 
Margaret Bellenden. Besides tea and coffee and cocoa, there 
was oatmeal parritch, wheaten bread, and " bannocks o' barley 
meal," and rolls ; and on the sideboard, venison pasty, ham, 
collared eel, kippered salmon, reindeer tongue, and a silver 
flagon of claret. Though the bill of fare was tempting, and 
the keen morning air through which we had driven might be 
supposed to have given an edge to my appetite, I was so ex- 
cited by everything I saw around me, that it failed me alto- 
gether. I could but sit still and nervously crumble my bread, 
and listen to the sparkling conversation -at the table. 

Breakfast ended, Scott told us that " the lion must retire to 
his den till lunch-time, when he should be at large, though 
perfectly tame and submissive to orders. Meanwhile," said 
he, " I consign you, Young, to my lady's care, or, if you prefer 
it, to Charles's. You will find him an experienced master of 
the ceremonies ; and if Julian would like it, I can lend him a 
gun, and he might bring us home a hare or two for dinner." 

As I was no shot, I preferred accompanying my father 
round the house and grounds, under the guidance of our cicer- 
one, who justified his father's commendations by the readiness 
with which he gave us chapter and verse for all the many 
curiosities within and without, and thus pleasantly wiled awaj 



THE YOUNGS AT ABBOTSFORD. 1 79 

«,he time till luncheon was announced. The nature of the con- 
versation which took place during the dispatch of that meal 1 
am unable to recall ; although I have rather an uncomfortable 
recollection of a speech of Lady Scott's, which startled me by 
its apparent want of appreciation of her husband. I dare say 
it was said without any real meaning, but none the less it had 
a discordant sound which grated on my ears. My father had 
been admiring the proportions of the room and the fashion of 
its ceiling. She, observing his head uplifted, and his eyes di- 
rected towards it, exclaimed, in her droll Guernsey accent, 
" Ah ! Mr. Young, you may look up at the bosses on the ceil- 
ing as long as you like ; but you must not look down at my 
poor carpet, for I am ashamed of it. I must get Scott to 
write some more of his nonsense-books, and buy me a new 
one ! " 

As she was in the secret of the authorship of the novels, 
and was pledged, in common with all the family, to keep it in- 
violate, it is clear that, when she spoke of his nonsense-books, 
she must have referred to his poems, about which there was no 
disguise. 

Luncheon concluded, it was proposed that we should ride, 
under Scott's guidance, to Dryburgh Abbey. As soon as he 
had seen us mounted on his two well-bred hacks, with an 
alacrity striking in a lame man, he flung his right leg over the 
back of his iron-gray cob, and summoning around him Maida, 
his deer-hound, Hamlet, his jet-black greyhound, and two 
Dandie Dinmont terriers, between all of whom and their mas- 
ter there evidently existed the freemasonry of a common at- 
tachment, he put spurs to his horse and started off at a sharp 
trot for our destination. He seemed to enjoy the exhilaration 
of fast riding ; for he soon broke into a hand-gallop with all 
the high animal spirits of a boy just out of school. Now and 
then he would rein up his steed rather abruptly to point out to 
our notice objects of romantic or legendary interest ; here, 
were sites memorable because of raids and forays committed 
on them by Border chiefs ; there, our attention was c illed to 
changes effected in the outline and surface of the country, 



180 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

since my lather's last visit, through improved agriculture. 
Then we listened to his hopeful auguries of the tale his fit 
plantations would tell when they should have attained to larger 
growth ! When we arrived at Dryburgh, the stores of archae- 
ological lore connected with the abbey, which he poured forth 
with lavish volubility, astounded me ; although I must own I 
was a far more appreciative listener when he told us his racy 
anecdotes of Lord Buchan's eccentricities and Henry Er- 
skine's wit. 

By the time we had reached home, after our delightful ride, 
the gong was sounding for dressing. On descending to the 
drawing-room, we found several friends and neighbors of 
Scott's assembled there. They were all strangers to me, and 
therefore it is no wonder that I should forget their names. The 
dinner, in point of profusion, was exactly what I might have 
expected from the foretaste I had had at luncheon and break- 
fast. The characteristic feature of the meal was its absence 
of all stiffness and restraint — indeed, its joyous hilarity; and 
yet the laws of bienseance were never violated. There was, 
however, one material drawback to my entire enjoyment of my 
dinner, in the droning notes of the bagpipe, which never inter- 
mitted till the cloth was about to be removed. I can well be- 
lieve that, to a native Scot, the historical associations of the 
bagpipe may be most endearing ; nor will I deny that, in cer- 
tain states of the atmosphere, when sound is mellowed by 
distance, or when it is heard on a march by the hillside, or 
used as a stimulus to exhausted nerves in action, as was the 
case at Waterloo, or as a cordial for the drooping hearts of 
captives, as at Lucknow, it must have a music of its own which 
none else can equal. But, to unfamiliar and sensitive English 
ears, its buzzing din interrupting conversation, distracting at- 
tention, and irritating the temper, it certainly is a nuisance. 
Waltei Scott was a Scotchman, and loved to keep up feudal 
habits, and therefore to him it was the very reverse. It was 
an established usage de inaison that John of Skye, a grand fel- 
low, in full Highland costume — a lineal descendant of Wallace. 
by the by — should, during the hour of dinner, parade up and 



THE YOUNGS AT ABBOTSFORD. iS I 

down the front of the windows, and squeak and squeal away, 
until summoned to receive his reward. When the cheese had 
been removed, and the cloth brushed, a footman stood at the 
right of " the sheriff " (as his retainers loved to call him), and 
the piper at his left, still bonneted. The footman poured 
forth a bumper of Glenlivet and handed it to his master ; he, 
in turn, passed it on to John of Skye. There was a smack of 
the lips, a stately bow to the company, and the Highlander 
was gone. 

After the gentlemen were supposed to have had their quan- 
tum of wine, they withdrew to the armory for coffee, where the 
ladies joined them. In the centre of a small, dimly-lighted 
chamber, the walls of which were covered with morions, and 
claymores, and pistols, and carbines, and cuirasses, and an- 
tique shields and halberds, etc., etc., each piece containing a 
history in itself, sat the generous host himself in a high-backed 
chair. He would lead the conversation to the mystic and the 
supernatural, and tell us harrowing tales of glamour and sec- 
ond-sight and necromancy ; and, when he thought he had filled 
the scene enough, and sufficiently chilled our marrows, he 
would call on Adam Ferguson for one of his Jacobite relics — 
such as " Hey, Johnny Cope, are ye wauking yet," or " The 
Laird o' Cockpen," or " Wha wad na fecht for Charlie ? " — 
and these he sang with such point and zest, and such an under- 
current of implication, that you felt sure in what direction his 
own sympathies would have flowed had he been out in " the 
'45." When he had abdicated the chair, my father was called 
upon to occupy it, and he gave us from memory, the whole 
of " Tarn o' Shanter." It seemed to be an invariable cus- 
tom at Abbotsford, that every one admitted within its circle 
should utilize the gift within him, so as to contribute to the 
common stock of social amusement. As I have mentioned 
my father's recitation of " Tarn o' Shanter," I may as well in- 
troduce here Lady Dacre's lines addressed to him after hear- 
ing him read them years before. 



1 82 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

TO MR. YOUNG, 

On his reading " Tarn & Sha,7iter " with peculiar spirit 

The same rude winds wi' mighty sweep 
Upheave the waters of the deep, 
To dash them on ilk jutting steep 

Their fury meets, 
And cozie 'mang low flowrets creep, 

Stealing their sweets. 

And suns that rear the forest's pride, 
To bear upo' the subject tide 
Britannia's thunders far and wide, 

Wi' milder ray 
Will glint adown the copsewood side 

On ilka spray. 

So thou wi' learn'd and tunefu' tongue 
Will pour, mellifluous, full and strong, 
Great Shakespeare's bold, creative song 

Wi' master skill 
Resistless to the list'ning throng 

Thou sway'st at will : 

And Tarn o' Shanter, roaring fou, 
By thee embodied to our view, 
The rustic bard would own sae true, 

He scant could tell 
Wha 'twas the living picture drew, 

Thou, or himsell. 

When we had retired to bed, my nerves were so much on 
the stretch, in consequence of all I had seen and heard, that I 
could not sleep till morning. As I lay pondering on the char- 
acter and qualities of our host, I could not help thinking how 
much the circumstances which surround a man, conjoined, 
no doubt, with organization and temperament, help to mould 
the poet. Thus, for instance, if he take "man " for his theme, 
he will write best of that class of men with which he has min- 



THE YOUNGS AT ABBOTSFORD. 1 83 

gled most ; while, if he look to " nature " for his subject, he 
will paint her best in those of her forms with which he is most 
familiar. I think there can be no question, that the early life 
and bodily training of Scott had much to do with the forma- 
tion of his mind, and with the character of his compositions. 
" A wild and woodland rover," of so much thew and muscle, 
spending so much of his youth in the open air, now dashing 
through the foaming flood after the otter, now stalking the 
roe-deer, " free to tread the heather where he would," could 
hardly fail to have the range of his sensibility to beauty en- 
larged and quickened by the romantic scenery around him : 
while the legendary tales and the historic associations with 
which the Highlands and the Lowlands teem, would impreg- 
nate his ardent fancy with a fecundity of imagery, which, while 
it explains his marvelous descriptive power, and the masculine 
vigor of his verse, also accounts for its utter absence of pas- 
sion and of sentiment. 

Nothing in Walter Scott struck me more than his ignorance 
of pictures, and his indifference to music. There was not one 
picture of sterling merit on his walls ! A young lady in the 
house sang divinely ; but her singing gave him no pleasure. 
He was much too honest to .affect to be what he was not, or to 
have what he had not ; thus he admitted " that he had a rea- 
sonable good ear for a jig," but confessed that " solos and so- 
natas gave him the spleen." The late Sir Robert Peel also 
hated music ; and Rogers used to say, when speaking of Lord 
Holland, that "he had so little appreciation of art, that he 
firmly believed painting gave him no pleasure ; while music 
gave him absolute pain." Byron, again, like Tasso, cared so 
little for architecture, that he lived nine months in Pisa before 
he cast an eye on the Baptistery ; and Madame de Stael cared 
so little for the grandest scenery in the world, that though she 
lived so long at Copet, she never cared to see the glaciers. In 
the instances I have cited deficiencies in taste do not much 
surprise me ; but it did disappoint me to find that one who had 
painted natural scenery with such artistic power and fidelity, 
and who had composed lays as tuneful as those of " The Last 



1 84 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

Minstrel," could be insensible to the charms of the twin sis- 
ters, Music and Painting. 

Each day that we remained at Abbotsford, fresh visitors 
came to dine, or sleep, or both, with two exceptions. Once we 
dined at six, and went to Melrose by moonlight to see the ab- 
bey. Everyone who has read "The Lay" remembers the 
opening of the second Canto, 

" If thou would' st view fair Melrose aright, 
Go visit it by the pale moonlight." 

Now, I have so often heard it confidently asserted that the 
writer of those lines never visited Melrose, himself, by moon- 
light, that, considering the lapse of years and the lapses of a 
treacherous memory, I am disposed to doubt the correctness 
of my own impressions. But that my father, Ferguson, and I, 
went one night after dinner, in Scott's sociable, to Melrose by 
moonlight I will swear, and, but for the many statements to 
the contrary, I would have sworn that I distinctly remembered 
Scott himself sitting opposite to me in a queer cap with a 
Lowland plaid crossed over his breast, and saying, after my 
father had repeated in the churchyard Gray's Elegy, " Bravo, 
Young ; " but I so often find myself mistaken, where memory 
is concerned, that I doubt my own evidence. Until I am con- 
tradicted, however, I shall believe that another day we all went 
to Chiefswood and dined with Lockhart and his sweet wife. I 
was much struck with Lockhart's beauty. He was in the prime 
of life ; the sorrows of after years had not grizzled his jet 
black curly locks ; nor had time dimmed the lustre of his 
splendid eye. His deference and attention to his father-in- 
law, it was delightful to witness. After dinner I had another 
opportunity of observing Scott's insensibility to music, when 
detached from association. Two sisters sang duets in French, 
Italian, German, and Spanish, with equal address. One had a 
clear soprano voice, the other a rich contralto. Their vocali- 
zation was faultless, their expression that of real feeling. I was 
so bewitched with their singing, that I could not refrain from 
an occasional glance at Scott, to see if he were proof aga : nst 



THE YOUNGS AT ABBOTSFORD. 1 85 

such captivation. But the more they sang, and the better they 
sang, the more impenetrable did he appear. He sat, absent, 
abstracted, with lip drawn down and chin resting on his gold- 
headed crutch, his massy eyebrows contracted, and his coun- 
tenance betokening " a sad civility." At last, Mrs. Lockhart, 
thinking she had sufficiently taxed the good-nature of her 
gifted friends, uncovered her harp, and began to play the air 
of " Charlie is my darling." The change which instantly passed 
o'er the spirit of the poet's dream was most striking. Pride of 
lineage, love of chivalry, strong leanings to the Stuart cause, 
were all visibly fermenting in the brain of the enthusiastic bard. 
His light blue eye kindled, the blood mantled in his cheek, his 
nostril quivered, his big chest heaved, until, unable longer to 
suppress the emotion evoked by his native melodies in favor 
of a ruined cause, he sprang from his chair, limped across the 
room, and, to the peril of those within his reach, brandishing 
his crutch, as if it had been a brand of steel, shouted forth 
with more of vigor than of melody, " And a' the folk cam run- 
ning out to greet the Chevalier ! Oh ! Charlie is my dar- 
ling," etc. 

This honest, irrepressible outburst of natural feeling would 
have thrown his friend Tom Moore into convulsions ; for he 
once told Lord and Lady Lansdowne, at Bowood, when I was 
present, that he had been invited, when in Edinburgh, by 
Blackwood, to one of his suppers at Ambrose's. On going 
there he found many he knew — Scott, Lockhart, Jeffery, Muir, 
John Wilson, James Ballantyne, and three or four ladies ; and, 
among their number, two peeresses, who had, only that very 
day, begged for an invitation, in the hope of meeting Moore. 
Their presence being unexpected by the majority of the club, 
members had dropped in in their morning dress ; while the two 
ladies " of high degree " were in full evening costume, or, as 
Moore described it, "in shoulders." When supperHvas half 
over, James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, appeared. A chair 
had been designedly left vacant for him between the two aris- 
tocrats. His approach was discernible before his person was 
visible : for he came straight from a cattle fair, and was reek- 



1 86 JULIAN' CHARLES YOUNG. 

ing with the unsavory odors of the sheep and pigs and oxen, 
in whose company he had been for hours. Nevertheless he 
soon made himself at home with the fair ladies on each side of 
him : somewhat too much so ; for, supper over, the cloth with- 
drawn, and the toddy introduced, the song going round, and 
his next door neighbors being too languid in their manner oi 
joining in the chorus to please him, he turned first to the right 
hand, then to the left, and slapped both of them on their backs 
with such good will as to make their blade bones ring again ; 
then, with the yell of an Ojibbeway Indian, he shouted forth, 
" Noo, then, leddies, follow me ! * Heigh tutti, tutti ! Heigh 
tutti, tutti ! ' " 

Dr. Chalmers. 

In height and breadth, and in general configuration, he was 
not unlike Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I have, since I knew 
Coleridge, sometimes thought, that if Chalmers' head had 
been hidden from sight, I could easily have mistaken him for 
that remarkable man. His face was pallid and pasty ; and, I 
rather think, showed slight traces of small-pox. His features 
were ordinary ; his hair was scanty, and generally roughed, 
as if his fingers had been often passed through it ; his brow 
was not high, but very broad and well developed. 

His skull, phrenologically speaking, argued great mathe- 
matical power ; but showed deficiency in the very qualities for 
which he was conspicuous, namely, benevolence and venera- 
tion. 

There was one feature in his face which struck me as so 
very peculiar, and I may say, anomalous, that I have often 
wondered never to have heard or read any comment upon it 
from others ; I allude to his eye. The eye by its mobility, its 
power of expressing the passions, and the spirit it imparts to 
the features, is usually considered as the index of the mind. 
Now, I never beheld so mute, impassive, inexpressive an eye 
as that of Chalmers. It was small, gray, cold, and fishy 
When, either in preaching from the pulpit or lecturing in the 
class-room, he was excited by his subject ; when his heart 
grew hot within him, and the fire burned ; when the brilliancy 



DR. CHALMERS. 1 87 

of his imagery and the power of his phraseology carried the 
feelings of his auditory away with all the impetuosity of a tor- 
rent ; nay, when he seemed transported out of himself by the 
sublimity of his conceptions, and the intense reality of his 
convictions, so as to cause him to defy conventionalities, and 
set at naught the artifices of rhetoric, and make him swing 
his left arm about like the sails of a windmill ; when every 
fibre of his body throbbed and quivered with emotion ; when 
his listeners' mouths were wide open, and their breath sus- 
pended, the cheeks of some bedewed with tears, and the eyes 
of others scintillating with sympathy and admiration — his eye 
remained as tame and lustreless as if it had been but the pale 
reflex of a mind indifferent and half asleep ! 

Whether Chalmers preached extempore or memoriter when 
he was the minister of the Tron Church, Glasgow, or whether 
he preached from book when he was followed in crowds by 
the best intellects in London, I have no means of knowing ; 
but I can declare, with confidence, that I never heard him at 
St. Andrew's — and I have heard him often — that he had not 
his manuscript in full before him. It is a well-known fact, 
that Presbyterians think that the duties of the pulpit are the 
most important which can devolve upon a minister ; and that, 
with few exceptions, they have an invincible repugnance to a 
sermon conned over and composed in the study, on the 
ground of its lacking spontaneity and the apparent impress of 
the Spirit. Therefore it was always a subject of wonder to 
me how Chalmers managed to reconcile his hearers to his 
sermon-reading, which, in any other case, would unquestion- 
ably have been to them a stumbling-block and an offense. 

I have a distinct recollection, one Sunday, when I was liv- 
ing at Cults, and when a stranger was officiating for Dr. Gil- 
lespie (who had been summoned to Edinburgh on business), 
observing that he had not proceeded five minutes with his 
" discourse," before there was a general commotion and stam- 
pedo. The exodus, at last, became so serious, that, conceiv- 
ing something to be wrong, probably a fire in the manse, I 
caught the infection, and eagerly inquired of the first person 



1 88 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

I encountered in the church-yard what was the matter, and was 
told, with an expression of sovereign scorn and disgust — 
" Losh keep ye, young man ! Hae ye eyes and see not ? Hae 
ye ears and hear not ? The man reads ! " 

Dr. Haldane. 

He was one of the most estimable of men ; universally le- 
spected by all who knew him : and yet, in spite of a pleasing 
person, a genial manner, a good position, a good house, and a 
handsome competency, he was well advanced in life before he 
could make up his mind to marry. No misogynist was he ! 
Womankind he loved, " not wisely but too well ; " and yet 
when in their presence his self-possession forsook him, and 
he became a much oppressed and bashful man. Shortly be- 
fore I left St. Andrew's, the nephew of his patron Lord Mel- 
ville, who had been his inmate and companion for three years, 
also was about to leave. The loss of the society of one whose 
great ability had led all who knew him to expect he would one 
day fill high place in the councils of his sovereign, grieved him 
much. When it was reported that he had fitted up his house 
afresh, at the very time when appearances were of less conse- 
quence to him, it was generally supposed, and currently re- 
ported, that he was going to change his state. There is nc 
doubt the rumor was well founded ; for, on a given day, at an 
hour unusually early for a call, the good Doctor was seen at 
the house of a certain lady, for whom he had long been sup- 
posed to have a predilection, in a bran-new coat, wiping his 
" weel pouthered head " with a clean white handkerchief, and 
betraying much excitement of manner, till the door was 
opened. As soon as he was shown " ben," and saw the fair 
one, whom he sought, calmly engaged in knitting stockings 
and not at all disturbed by his entrance, his courage, like that 
of Bob Acres in the " Rivals," began to ooze out at the tip of 
his fingers, and he sat himself down on the edge of his chair in 
such a state of pitiable confusion as to elicit the compassion 
of the lady in question. She could not understand what ailed 
him : but felt instinctively that the truest good-breeding would 



DR. HALDANE. 1 89 

be to take no notice of his embarrassment, and lead the con- 
versation herself. Thus, then, she opened fire : " Weel, 
Doctor, hae ye got through a' your papering and painting 
yet ? " (A clearing of the throat preparatory to speech, but 
not a word uttered.) " I'm told your new carpets are just 
beautifu'." (A further clearing of the throat, and a vigorous 
effort to speak, terminating in a free use of his handkerchief.) 
" They say the pattern o' the dining-room chairs is something 
quite out o' the way. In short, that everything aboot the 
house is perfect." Here was a providential opening he was 
not such a goose as to overlook. He " screwed his courage 
to the sticking place," advanced his chair, sidled towards her, 
simpering the while, raised his eyes furtively to her face, and 
said, with a gentle inflection of his voice, which no ear but a 
willfully deaf one could have misinterpreted, " Na ! Na ! Miss 

J n. It's no quite perfect. It canna be quite that so long 

as there's ae thing wanting ! " " And what can that be ? " 
said the imperturbable spinster. Utterly thrown on his 
beam-ends by her willful blindness to his meaning, the poor 
man beat a hasty retreat, drew back his chair from its danger- 
ous proximity, caught up his hat, and, in tones of blighted 
hope, gasped forth his declaration in these words : " Eh ! 
dear ! Eh ! Well 'am sure ! The thing wanting is, a — a — 
a — sideboord ! " 

The Lost Ring. 

Some few years ago, a gentleman, a bachelor, residing in 
lodgings on the first floor of a respectable but small house in 
this town, appeared before the bench of magistrates with a 
charge against the maid of his lodging of having robbed him 
of a ring. 

It appeared that he occupied the front drawing-room on the 
first floor, and slept in the back ; that, one night, having un- 
dressed by the drawing-room fire, and wound up his watch, 
he deposited it, with his chain, two seals, and a ring attached 
to it, on the chimney-piece, and jumped into bed in the next 
room. In the morning, on dressing himself and going to the 



1 90 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

chimney piece for his watch, he discovered that the ring, 
which he valued, was gone. As he was in the habit of sleep- 
ing with the folding doors between the rooms ajar, and was 
always a light sleeper, he felt confident that no one had en- 
tered the room since he had left it over-night, except the 
maid, who had come in early, as usual, to dust and sweep the 
room, and lay the table for breakfast. The servant was so 
neat in her person, so pretty, gentle, and well conducted, that 
he felt loath to tell her his suspicions ; but the moral certainty 
he entertained of her guilt, and the great value he set on the 
ring, determined him to conquer his scruples. On hearing 
herself charged with the theft, she started and stared, as if 
doubting the evidence of her ears ; indignantly denied the 
charge, burst into tears, and told her mistress that she would 
not remain another hour under her roof ; for that her lodger 
had taxed her with dishonesty. The landlady espoused the 
cause of her maid, and used such strong language against her 
accuser, that his blood, in turn, was roused ; and he resolved 
to bring the matter to a determinate issue before the magis- 
trates. Pedder said he was on the bench ; and that, pre- 
possessed as he and his coadjutors were by the girl's looks 
and manners, they felt quite unable to resist the weight of 
circumstantial evidence produced against her, and never had 
a moment's hesitation in committing her for trial at the next 
assizes. 

Five or six weeks after she had been in jail the prosecutor 
went into Shaw's, the pastry-cook's, in the Old Steyne, for an 
ice. While he was pausing, deliberately, between each spoon- 
ful, the sun burst forth in all its strength, and darted one of 
its beams along the floor of the shop, bringing into light an 
object which glistened vividly between the joists of the floor- 
ing. He took out his penknife, inserted the point of it be- 
tween the boards, and to his utter amazement, fished up his 
lost ring. He ran back to his lodgings, and, on referring to 
his diary, he found that, on the evening of the very night on 
which he had left his watch and its appendages on the chim- 
ney-piece, he had been at Shaw's having some refreshment ; 



COLERIDGE AND WORDSWORTH. 19I 

and he conjectured that, as half the split ring from which his 
seals hung, had been, for some time, a good deal wrenched 
apart, it must have come into contact with the edge of the 
counter, and thus liberated the ring from its hold ; that it had 
fallen on the ground, been trodden under the feet of some of 
the visitors to the shop, and in this way been wedged in be- 
tween the boards of the flooring. Stung to the quick by self- 
reproach, at the thought of having tarnished the good name of 
an innocent girl, by false accusation, and of having exposed 
her to the unmerited sufferings of prison life, he instantly took 
a post-chaise and drove off to the jail in which she was con- 
fined, asked every particular about her from the governor, and 
found him enthusiastic in his admiration of her, and utterly in- 
credulous of her guilt. " She's the gentlest, sweetest-tem- 
pered creature we have ever had within these walls ; and 
nothing shall make me believe she is a thief," said he. " No 
more she is," was the eager answer. " She has been falsely 
charged by me, and I have come to make her every reparation 
in my power." In one brief word, he offered her his hand, 
and married her. 

Coleridge and Wordsworth. 

1828. July 6. Mrs. Aders, an old London friend of mine, 
who was in the habit of spending her summers at a chateau 
she had on the Rhine, hearing I was going for a twelve-month's 
tour on the Continent, begged me to visit her at Godesberg on 
my road south. I had read so much of the beauty of the 
place, and heard so much of the cultivated society she con- 
trived to attract around her, that I was only too glad to avail 
myself of her invitation. When I had been under her roof for 
a fortnight, fearing to outstay my welcome, I announced my 
intention of leaving on the morrow. The declaration was re- 
ceived with flattering indignation. I was accused of being en- 
nuye with the place and the people in it. On my expatiating 
on the enjoyment I had had in my visit, I was challenged to 
prove the sincerity of my protestations by consenting to pro- 
long my stay another fortnight. " You will not regret doing 



I92 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

so," said my hostess, "for I expect those here to-morrow 
whom I am sure you would like to meet. Who they are I 
shall not tell you, till I introduce you to them." She then re- 
iterated her invitation with such sincere cordiality, that I felt 
no longer any hesitation in accepting it. 

In the evening of the following day, having overwalked my- 
self in the morning, I retired early to my room, and had not 
been many minutes in bed before the cracking of postilions' 
whips, the rumbling of carriage wheels, the ringing of bells, 
the slamming of doors, and the other discordant noises com- 
mon to a late arrival, told me that the expected visitors had 
come. 

Next morning I was down, and in the breakfast-room be- 
times, awaiting with curiosity the entrance of the strangers. 
After a while, Mrs. Aders made her appearance, and told me 
they were so fatigued, that they had asked leave to have their 
breakfasts sent up to their bedchambers. Our meal con- 
cluded, I once more tried to ascertain the names of the new 
comers. But my hostess evaded the question, and withdrew 
to her boudoir ; and I was compelled to adjourn to the saloon, 
that I might dispatch my letters before I was interrupted. I 
had scarcely entered the room, and was trying to improve a 
bad sketch I had made the day before, when an old gentleman 
entered, with a large quarto volume beneath his arm, whom I 
at once concluded to be one of the anonymous gentry about 
whose personality there had been so much mystery. As he 
entered, I rose and bowed. Whether he was conscious of my 
well-intentioned civility I cannot say, but at all events he did 
not return my salutation. He appeared preoccupied with his 
own cogitations. I began to conjecture what manner of man 
he was. His general appearance would have led me to sup- 
pose him a dissenting minister. His hair was long, white, and 
neglected ; his complexion was florid, his features were square, 
his eyes watery and hazy, his brow broad and massive, his 
build uncouth, his deportment grave and abstracted. He wore 
a white starchless neckcloth tied in a limp bow, and was 
dressed in a shabby suit of dusky black. His breeches were 



COLERIDGE AND WORDSWORTH. 1 93 

unbuttoned at the knee, his sturdy limbs were encased in 
stockings of lavender-colored worsted, his feet were thrust 
into well-worn slippers, much trodden down at heel. In this 
ungainly attire he paced up and down, and down and up, and 
round and round a saloon sixty feet square, with head bent 
forward, and shoulders stooping, absently musing, and mutter- 
ing to himself, and occasionally clutching to his side his pon- 
derous tome, as if he feared it might be taken from him. I 
confess my young spirit chafed under the wearing quarter- 
deck monotony of his promenade, and, stung by the cool man- 
ner in which he ignored my presence, I was about to leave 
him in undisputed possession of the field, when I was diverted 
from my purpose by the entrance of another gentleman, whose 
kindly smile, and courteous recognition of my bow, encour- 
aged me to keep my ground, and promised me some compen- 
sation for the slight put upon me by his precursor. He was 
dressed in a brown-holland blouse ; he held in his left hand 
an alpenstock (on the top of which he had placed the broad- 
brimmed " wide-awake " he had just taken off), and in his 
right a sprig of apple-blossom overgrown with lichen. His 
cheeks were glowing with the effects of recent exercise. So 
noiseless had been his entry, that the peripatetic philosopher, 
whose back was turned to him at first, was unaware of his 
presence. But no sooner did he discover it than he shuffled 
up to him, grasped him by both hands, and backed him bodily 
into a neighboring arm-chair. Having secured him safely 
there, he " made assurance doubly sure," by hanging over 
him, so as to bar his escape, while he delivered his testimony 
on the fallacy of certain of Bishop Berkeley's propositions, in 
detecting which, he said, he had opened up a rich vein of 
original reflection. Not content with cursory criticism, he 
plunged profoundly into a metaphysical lecture, which, but for 
the opportune intrusion of our fair hostess and her young lady 
friend, might have lasted until dinner-time. It was then, for 
the first time, I learned who the party consisted of ; and I 
was introduced to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Words- 
worth, and his daughter Dora. 



T94 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG, 

The reported presence of two such men as Coleridge and 
Wordsworth soon attracted to Mrs. Ader's house all the 
illuminati of Bonn — Niebuhr, Becker, Augustus Schlegel, 
and many others. It is matter of lamentation to me, now, to 
think that I have not preserved any traces of the conversa- 
tions at which I was privileged to be present. But, alas ! my 
ignorance of German, and my inaptitude for metaphysics, de- 
barred me from much information that, but for those acci- 
dents, I might have obtained. I recall nothing but a few 
fragmentary remarks, which, for a wonder, I could understand. 
Schlegel was the only one of those I have named who spoke 
English, so that his were the only remarks I recollect, and 
they hardly worth repetition. I fancy I see him now, twitching 
his brown scratch wig, and twisting a lock of artificial hair 
into a curl, and going to the glass to see how it became him. 
He talked admirably, yet not pleasingly, for whatever the 
topic, and by whosever lips it was started, he soon contrived 
to make himself the central object of interest. The perfect 
self-satisfaction with which he told of his involuntary successes 
with the fair sex, was both amusing and pitiable. He said 
that when he lived with Madame de Stael at Copet, he sup- 
plied her with all the philosophical materials for her " L'Alle- 
magne." Coleridge told him that there never had been such a 
translation of any work in any language as his of Shakespeare. 
Schlegel returned the compliment, scratched his back in turn, 
and declared that Coleridge's translation of Schiller's " Wal- 
lenstein," was unrivaled for its fidelity to its original and the 
beauty of its diction. Both of them praised Cary's " Dante " 
highly. Schlegel praised Scott's poetry. Coleridge decried 
it, stating that no poet ever lived, of equal eminence, whose 
writings furnished so few quotable passages. Schlegel then 
praised Bvron. Coleridge immediately tried to depreciate 
him. " Ah," said he, " Byron is a meteor. Wordsworth, 
there " (pointing to him) " is a fixed star. During the first 
furore of Byron's reputation, the sale of his works was un- 
paralleled, while that of Wordsworth's was insignificant, and 
now each succeeding year, in proportion as the circulation of 



COLERIDGE AND WORDSWORTH. 1 95 

Byron's works has fallen off, the issue of Wordsworth's poems 
has steadily increased." 

I observed that, as a rule, Wordsworth allowed Coleridge 
to have all the talk to himself ; but once or twice Coleridge 
would succeed in entangling Wordsworth in a discussion on 
some abstract metaphysical question : when I would sit by, 
reverently attending, and trying hard to look intelligent, 
though I did not feel so ; for at such times a leaden stupor 
weighed down my faculties. I seemed as if I had been trans- 
ported by two malignant genii into an atmosphere too rarefied 
for me to live in. I was soaring, as it were, against my will, 
'twixt heaven and the lower parts of the earth. Sometimes 
I was in pure ether — much oftener in the clouds. When 
however, these potent spirits descended to a lower level, and 
deigned to treat of history or politics, theology or belles 
lettres, I breathed again ; and, imbibing fresh ideas from 
them, felt invigorated. 

I must say I never saw any manifestation of small jealousy 
between Coleridge and Wordsworth ; which, considering the 
vanity possessed by each, I thought uncommonly to the credit 
of both. I am sure they entertained a thorough respect for 
each other's intellectual endowments. 

Coleridge appeared to me a living refutation of Bacon's 
axiom, " that a full man is never a ready man, nor the ready 
man the full one : " for he was both a full man and a ready 
man. 

Wordsworth was a single-minded man ; with less imagina- 
tion than Coleridge, but with a more harmonious judgment, 
and better balanced principles. Coleridge, conscious of his 
transcendant powers, rioted in a license of tongue which no 
man could tame. 

Wordsworth, though he could discourse most eloquent 
music, was never unwilling to sit still in Coleridge's presence, 
yet could be as happy in prattling with a child as in commun- 
ing with a sage. 

If Wordsworth condescended to converse with me, he 
spoke to me as if I were his equal in mind, and made me 



I96 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

pleased and proud in consequence. If Coleridge held me by 
the button, for lack of fitter audience, he had a talent for 
making me feel his wisdom and my own stupidity : so that I 
was miserable and humiliated by the sense of it. 

I remember reading, once, in a life of Plato, that if ever 
Aristotle were absent from his master's lectures, Plato would 
say to his other scholars, " Intellect is not here to-day ; " and 
if Coleridge could have divined the confusion of my mind, 
when he was trying to indoctrinate me with his own extrava- 
gant speculations, he would probably have tapped my skull 
and applied the same words to me, though in a less flattering 
sense. 

While he confined himself to his " judgments, analytic and 
synthetic," I had a glimmering conception of his meaning ; 
but when he gave tongue on " a priori knowledge and a 
posteriori knowledge," and spake of " modality," and of the 
" paralogism of pure reason," my feeble brain reeled, and I 
gasped for escape from the imaginary and chimerical to the 
material and the practical. 

I had occasional walks with Coleridge in the garden, and 
many with Wordsworth over the fields. The former was an 
indifferent pedestrian, the latter a practiced one. I revert 
with great delight to a long expedition I one day made with 
Wordsworth alone. He had heard of the ruins of an old 
Cistercian abbey, Heisterbach, on the side of the Rhine op- 
posite to that on which we were staying. He. asked me, 
playfully, to join him, in these words : — 

" Go with us into the abbey — there ; 
And let us there, at large, discourse our fortunes. :! 

Shakespeare- 

Hitherto I had only seen Wordsworth in the presence of 
Coleridge ; and had imagined him, constitutionally, contem- 
plative and taciturn. To-day I discovered that his reticence 
was self-imposed, out of consideration for the inordinate 
'oquacity of his brother poet. 

Coleridge always speechified or preached. 



COLERIDGE AND WORDSWORTH. 1 97 

" His argument 
Was all too heavy to admit much talk" 

Wordsworth chatted naturally and fluently out of the full- 
ness of his heart, and not from a wish to display his elo- 
quence. As I listened to him in this happy walk, I could not 
but apply to him one of Hooker's wise saws, " He who speak- 
eth no more than edifieth is undeservedly reprehended for 
much speaking." 

Idolatry of nature seemed with Wordsworth both a passion 
and a principle. She seemed a deity enshrined within his 
heart. Coleridge studied her rather as a mighty storehouse for 
poetical imagery than from innate love of her, for her own sweet 
sake. If once embarked in lecturing, no landscape, however 
grand, detained his notice for a second : whereas, let Words- 
worth have been ever so absorbed in argument, he would drop 
it without hesitation to feast his eyes on some combination of 
new scenery. The union of the great and the small, so won- 
derfully ordered by the Creator, and so wondrously exempli- 
fied on the banks of the great German river, had little attrac- 
tion for the author of " The Ancient Mariner." The grander 
features of a landscape he took in at a glance : and he would, 
with signal power of adaptation, dispose them into a magic 
world of his own. The rolling mist, as it hung suspended 
over the valley, and partially revealed the jagged tower and 
crag of Drachenfels, the river shooting out of sight the burden 
on its bosom with the velocity and force of an arrow ; the 
presence of elemental power, as exhibited in the thunder- 
storm, the waterfall, or the avalanche, were stimulus enough 
to stir the pulses of his teeming brain, and set his imagination 
afloat with colossal speculations of hereafter. With him ter- 
restrial objects soon expanded into immensity, and were 
quickly elevated above the stars. The more Rasselas-like 
mind of the recluse of the Lakes, on the other hand, who 
" loved the life removed," would direct itself to the painstak- 
ing investigation of nature's smallest secrets, prompt him to 
halt by the wayside bank, and dilate with exquisite sensibility 
and microscopic power of analysis on the construction of the 



I98 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

humblest grasses, or on the modest seclusion of some virgin 
wild-flower nestling in the bosom, or diffidently peering from 
out the privacy of a shady nook composed of plumes and ver- 
dant ferns. In that same stroll to Heisterbach, he pointed 
out to me such beauty of design in objects I had used to 
trample under foot, that I felt as if almost every spot on 
which I trod was holy ground, and that I had rudely dese- 
crated it. His eyes would fill with tears and his voice falter 
as he dwelt on the benevolent adaptation of means to ends 
discernible by reverential observation. Nor did his reflections 
die out in mawkish sentiment : they lay " too deep for tears," 
and, as they crowded thickly on him, his gentle spirit, subdued 
by the sense of the Divine goodness towards his creature, 
became attuned to better thoughts ; the love of nature in- 
spired his heart with a gratitude to nature's God, and found 
its most suitable expression in numbers. 

The melody of Coleridge's verse had led me, as in the case 
of Scott, to credit him with the possession of the very soul of 
song ; and yet, either from defective ear or from the intracta- 
bility of his vocal organs, his pronunciation of any language 
but his own was barbarous ; and his inability to follow the 
simplest melody quite ludicrous. The German tongue he 
knew au fond. He had learned it grammatically, critically, 
and scientifically, at Gottingen : yet so unintelligible was he 
when he tried to speak it, that I heard Schlegel say to him one 
evening, " Mein lieber Herr, would you speak English ? I un- 
derstand it : but your German I cannot follow." Whether he 
had ever been before enlightened on his malpronunciation of 
German, I know not ; but he was quite conscious that his pro- 
nunciation of French was execrable, for I heard him avow as 
much. He was a man of violent prejudices, and had conceived 
an insuperable aversion for the grande nation, of which he was 
not slow to boast. " I hate," he would say, " the hollowness 
of French principles : I hate the republicanism of French pol- 
itics : I hate the hostility of the French people to revealed 
religion : I hate the artificiality of French cooking : I hate the 
acidity of French wines : I hate the flimsiness of the French 



COLERIDGE AND WORDSWORTH. 1 99 

language: — my very organs of speech are so anti-Gallican 
that they refuse to pronounce intelligibly their insip'd tongue." 

He would inveigh with equal acrimony against the unreality 
and immorality of the French character of both sexes, espe- 
cially of the women ; and in justification, I suppose, of his un- 
measured invective, he told me that he was one day sitting 
tete-ci-tete with Madame de Stael in London, when her man- 
servant entered the room and asked her if she would receive 
Lady Davey. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her 
shoulders, and appeared to shudder with nausea, as she turned 
to him and said, " Ah ! ma foi ! oh ! mon cher ami ! ayez pitie 
de moi ! Mais quoi faire ? Cette villaine femme. Comme je le 
deteste ! Elle est, vraiment, insupportable ! " And then, on 
her entry, flung her arms around her, kissed her on both 
cheeks, pressed her to her bosom, and told her that she was 
more than enchanted to behold her. 

Query. Have our neighbors across the water a monopoly 
of such conventional duplicity ? or has honest John Bull his 
own proper share of it ? 

I have heard Coleridge say, more than once, that no mind 
was thoroughly well organized that was deficient in the sense 
of humor : yet I hardly ever saw any great exhibition of it in 
himself. The only instance I can recall, in which he said 
anything calculated to elicit a smile, during the two or three 
weeks I was with him, was when he, Wordsworth and I, were 
floating down the Rhine together in a boat we had hired con- 
jointly. The day was remarkably sultry; we had all three 
taken a considerable walk before our dinner ; and what with 
fatigue, heat, and the exhaustion consequent on garrulity, 
Coleridge complained grievously of thirst. When he heard 
there was no house near *at hand, and saw a leathern flask 
slung over my shoulder, he asked me what it contained. On 
my telling him it was Hock Heimar, he shook his head, and 
swore he would as soon take vinegar. After a while, however, 
finding his thirst increasing, he exclaimed, " I find I must con- 
quer my dislike — eat humble pie, and beg for a draught." He 
had no sooner rinsed his mouth with the obnoxious fluid, than 



200 JULIA X CHARLES YOUNG. 

he spat it out, and vented his disgust in the following im 
promptu : — 

" In Spain, that land of monks and apes, 
The thing called wine doth come from grapes ; 
But, on the noble river Rhine, 
The thing called gripes doth come from wine." 

It must not be assumed that the reciprocal admiration enter- 
tained by the two poets for each other's gifts made them blind 
to each other's infirmities. Wordsworth, in speaking of Cole- 
ridge, would admit, though most regretfully, the moral flaws in 
his character : for instance, his addiction to opium, his un- 
grateful conduct to Southey, and his neglect of his parental 
and conjugal obligations. Coleridge, on the other hand, for- 
ward as he was in defending Wordsworth from literary assail- 
ants, had evident pleasure in exposing his parsimony in the 
same breath in which he vaunted the purity and piety of his 
nature. 

After the trio had left Godesberg, and were returning 
homewards via Amsterdam and Rotterdam, they paid a visit 
to Haarlem. Mrs. Aders received a letter from Coleridge, 
dated from that place, in.which he told her that they had not 
arrived many minutes at their hotel before one of the principal 
waiters of the establishment entered the room, and asked them 
if they would like to accompany a few persons in the house to 
hear the celebrated organ played, as a party was then in the 
act of forming. 

" Oh," said Wordsworth, " we meant to hear the organ ! but 
why, Coleridge, should we go with strangers ? " "I beg your 
pardon," interrupted the waiter, who understood and spoke 
English well, " but it is not every 7 one who is willing to pay 
twelve guilders (£i) ; and as the organist will never play pri- 
vately for less, it is customary for persons to go in parties and 
share the expense between them." " Ah, then I think I will 
not go : I am tired," said Wordsworth. " Then you and I 
will go together, Dora," answered Coleridge. Off they went, 
arm in arm, leaving Wordsworth behind them, reclining on a 
couch. They had not been long in the Church of St. Bavon, 



COLERIDGE AND WORDSWORTH. 201 

listening to the different stops which the organist was trying 
to display to the greatest advantage --the solo stops, the bell 
stops, the trumpet stop, the vox humana stop — before Cole- 
ridge was made sensible of the unwelcome intrusion of a 
strong current of air throughout the building. He turned his 
head to see the cause ; and, to his amusement, descried his 
gentle friend, noiselessly closing the door, and furtively mak- 
ing his way behind one of the pillars, from whence he could 
hear without being seen, and thus escape payment. Before 
the organist had concluded his labors, Wordsworth had quietly 
withdrawn. On the return of his friend and his daughter, he 
asked them how they had enjoyed their visit to St. Bavon, but 
said nothing of his own ! 

When Wordsworth was in London, during the height of the 
season, he was aware it would be expected, after his appoint- 
ment to the laureateship, that he should present himself at one 
of the levees of the sovereign. As his means had never been 
large, it was rather a proof of wise economy, than of meanness, 
that he should have shrunk from the idea of buying a costly 
court-suit for one day's wear. In this dilemma Rogers came 
to his rescue, and told him that, as he should never go to court 
again, he was welcome to make what use he could of his 
clothes, bag- wig, sword, buckles, etc. By the help of a little 
tailoring he was enabled to avail himself of Rogers' kindness, 
and attend the levee. When it was over, he called in St. 
James's Place, and accompanied Rogers to Miss Coutts's. As 
they were walking together up the footway (under the gardens 
of the Arlington Street houses) which leads into Piccadilly, and 
is directly opposite to Stratton Street, Wordsworth's attention 
was arrested by the prepossessing looks of a little girl, who 
was sitting on the grass alone. He stopped and talked to her, 
and asked her of her parents, her home, whether she went to 
school, etc., and being well pleased with the ingenuous answers 
that she gave him, he put one hand on her head, and with the 
other dived down into the recesses of his coat-pocket, and 
drew forth a little copy of his minor poems, telling her to look 
at him well, and note his person ; to be sure also to observe 



202 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

well the time of day, and the spot ; and to recollect that that 
little book had been given to her by the author, the celebrated 
William Wordsworth ! 

N. B. The narrator of this story was Rogers himself. 

I hope that no one will infer from my inserting these two 
anecdotes of Wordsworth, that, because I am not his un- 
qualified eulogist, I therefore w r ish to throw ridicule or dis- 
credit on so great and good a man. I know the stories to be 
true, and, if true, they should be told ; for such details serve 
to elucidate character ; and what man so strong that has not 
his weak side ? There is no greater monster than a faultless 
man. Personal partiality has often tempted biographers, who 
have meant to be honest, to yield to a supp?'essio veri, from 
fear of doing injustice to their subject. Now I conceive that 
none but a purblind hero-worshipper would deny that the real 
wrong is knowingly to allow a mistaken impression of a char- 
acter to go forth uncorrected. There are shades as well as 
lights in the idiosyncracy of every man on earth. 

I regard Wordsworth as having been so essentially eminent 
and virtuous, that no man can better afford to have the truth 
spoken of him. 

When Coleridge, Wordsworth, and his daughter, had left 
Godesberg, I felt that I had no longer excuse for lingering in 
quarters where I had already tarried but too long, and there- 
fore I proceeded to visit some f rends at Frankfort. After a 
few days' stay there I went on to Heidelberg, with the object 
of studying German. 

With the exceeding beauty of the spot I was enchanted, 
although the manners of the students disgusted me. I had 
seen something of them in Bonn, but in Heidelberg they out- 
Heroded Herod. When Coleridge heard that I was going to 
Heidelberg, he said, " If I were not pledged to the dear 
Wordsworths, I would go with you, for I long to see Tiede- 
mann, the great anatomist : and with that arch-heretic Paulus, 
I want to measure swords — I mean in argument. And by 
the by, talking of measuring swords, let me give you a piece 
of advice, which, as coming from one who has himself been a 



DR. HUHLE. 203 

student at a German university, you should not despise. You 
will, ten to one, be wantonly insulted by some of the students, 
who will challenge you on the slightest pretext. Instantly ac- 
cept, but name pistols as your weapons." I did not forget this 
advice, which was well-timed, for I had not been long in Hei- 
delberg before I was struck with the offensive rudeness of the 
students, who, with their fancifully embroidered frocks, and 
bare throats, and long hair, and long pipes, and swaggering 
strut, seemed to infest the main street with the express object 
of provoking a quarrel with passers by, challenging them, and 
thus at their expense " renowning." I owe it to Coleridge's 
advice that I did not get into a serious scrape. A young man, 
without the slightest provocation, deliberately jostled me off 
the trottoir into the middle of the street, and then charged me 
with having been the assailant. He was so insolent and so 
voluble, that, being unable to speak his language, I knocked 
him down. He sprang up, and challenged me to meet him at 
the Heischgasse, the inn for duels. With an indifference 
which, God knows, I did not feel, I bowed to him, and told 
him in French I would meet him at the appointed place and 
bring my pistols with me at eight on the morrow." He then 
called me a coward, said he only fought with the weapon 
established by German usage, the rapier ; and, to my un- 
bounded satisfaction, retired. Luckily no other students were 
by, or they might have made us proceed to extremities. 

Dr. Huhle. 

While in Heidelberg, I used to take daily lessons in Ger- 
man, from a certain Dr. Huhle, who had been for some years 
the minister of the German Lutheran chapel in the Strand. 
Although, personally, of irreproachable reputation, his dis- 
courses had been so distasteful and unprofitable to his con- 
gregation, that, not knowing how otherwise to get rid of him, 
they clubbed together to purchase him an annuity. They then 
deputed some of the more influential of their members to wait 
on him and assure him of a fact (hem !) of which he seemed to 
be strangely unconscious — namely, that his health was rapidly 



204 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

declining, owing to his exertions in their behalf. They begged 
him to retire, before it was too late, to his birthplace in Ger- 
many, where, breathing his native air, they hoped he would 
end his declining years in that tranquility which he had so 
nobly earned, and to which they hoped their little offering 
might, in some degree, contribute. On that pittance he re- 
tired to Heidelberg, where, with the help of teaching English, 
he managed to eke out a sufficient livelihood for his slender 
wants. 

He was, without exception, the dirtiest and dingiest man I 
ever set eyes upon. He lodged at a tanner's ; and I sometimes 
found it no easy matter, in mounting his stairs, to pick my way 
through the blood-stained skins which were spread upon them 
to dry, and which had just been purchased from the butcher. 
On my first visit to him, I was saucy enough to ask him how 
he came to select such a house for his quarters. " Surely," 
said I, " however odorous you find the smell of the tanyard, 
the smell of the reeking skins of newly-slaughtered beasts 
must be very disagreeable ? " " Nod at all, Saar. I took dese 
lodgings on brinciple ! Know you not vat your myriad-minded 
poet says ? Ven Hamlet asks de Clown by de grave shide, 
* How long vill a man lie i' de earth ere he rot ? ' — de Glown 
say, ' Iv he be not rotten before he die, he'll last eight or nine 
years. A tanner vill last you nine years.' And vy ? Because, 
for de same reason vich kept flesh-butchers from catching de 
cholera ven all else in deir neighborhood had it." 

I said he was the dirtiest man I ever saw. I may safely add, 
he was the vainest ! I found him, on a particular occasion, 
seated in a filthy old dressing-gown, with a pipe in his mouth, 
enveloped in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, overlooking, sorting, 
and making selections from a large pile of sermons and manu- 
scripts. I said to him, " Have you never published any of 
your many compositions ? " Looking over his pipe at me, with 
an air of great importance, he thus addressed me : — " Saar ! 
You are not de erste persone who have asked me dat question 
mit surbrise. Der Herr von Nohden, die Librarium of die 
Breeches Mooseum at London, von day said tome ver plain — 



THEODORE HOOK. 20* 

; Mein goote freund, vy do you not bublish ? ' I shook mein 
head. ' Oh,' said dat great man, ' you musht bublish ! You 
musht indeed I I vill speak out ! You musht evacooate your 
brain, or, by ! you vill bursht ! ' " 

Theodore Hook. 

My father was on a visit the other day to Mr. Johnnes 
Knight's at Welwyn. Among other beaux esprits Theodore 
Hook was there. In the course of the evening he was asked 
to improvise for the amusement of the company. " With all my 
heart," said he, " if you will only give me a subject which will 
fire my muse. Remember how often I have played Punch, 
and how many subjects I have turned into song for you be- 
fore. Therefore be lenient, and give me something new, but 
easy." 

After thinking over several subjects, it was at last suggested 
that he should take for his theme the very village in which they 
were all assembled — Welwyn. 

Without one minute's pause for reflection, he ran his fingers 
over the key-board of the pianoforte, and sang the following 
lines impromptu : — 



IMPROxMPTU ON WELWYN, BY THEODORE HOOK. 



" You ask me where, in peaceful grot, 
I'd choose to fix my dwelling ? 
I'll tell you ; for I've found the spot ; 
And mortals call it Welwyn. 



" Its shade a quietude imparts, 
All other shades excelling ; 
The county where it stands is Herts, 
And hearts are lost at Welwyn. 



206 • JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

3- 

" I feel my own throw off its load 
When passing by the Bell Inn ! 
And why ? — Because I know the road 
Will lead me on to Welwyn. 



' And when arrived beneath those trees, 
Secure from storm or felling, 
The charms of Beauty, Friendship, Ease, 
All welcome me at Welwyn. 

5- 
* In other times, ere mute his tongue, 

His * Thoughts ' there Young sat telling t 
Now I, although I am not Young, 
Give all my thoughts to Welwyn. 



" And when my sorrows or my grief 
I wish to be repelling, 
I always pray for such relief 
As kindness gives at Welwyn. 

7- 
* Shall I implore those heathen dons 

On high Olympus dwelling ? 
No, faith ! I'll write to Mrs. Johnnes 
To ask me down to Welwyn." 

Murder will Out. 

My father told a story to-day which he heard from James 
Welch, a solicitor of Wells, too good to forget. 

A mile or two from some town in Somersetshire there was a 
manufactory — I think, of cloth — the treasurer and cashier of 
which lived some distance from it in a cottage of his own. He 
was known to pass to and fro every Saturday with a large sum 
of money in specie on his person, with which to pay the work- 
men their weekly wages. 



MURDER WILL OUT. 207 

A man in the neighborhood, pressed by want, under a sud- 
den impulse, determined, as a means of extricating himself 
from his difficulties, to waylay and rob him. 

As there had been no premeditation or malice aforethought 
in the case, he had not provided himself with any offensive 
weapon. He wrenched, therefore, a strong rail out of some 
palings which skirted the roadside. Before he could extract 
a long nail by which the rail had been fastened to the board- 
ing, the very man he was waiting for came by. He followed 
him stealthily, and beat out his brains. His victim dispatched, 
he was alarmed by the distant tramp of horses' feet, and was 
barely able to drag the body into the nearest ditch, and cover 
it over with dried leaves and rubbish, when two horsemen came 
in sight. As there was no time for him to possess himself of 
the spoil, he decamped as fast as he could to a farm- yard about 
a mile off, where he knew the hay harvest was not yet con- 
cluded. Seeing no better place of retreat, he climbed up, by 
the help of a ladder, to the top of one of the large ricks which 
had been left to settle before being thatched, and burrowed 
his way into it backwards, leaving out enough of his head to 
admit of his breathing. He had no alternative but to spend 
the night there, meaning, at early dawn, after rifling the body 
left in the ditch, to make for some point near the coast. Thirty 
years after, when he had confessed his guilt, he described, 
with terrific force, the unutterable horror of that night, haunted, 
as he was, with remorse, and in momentary dread of detec- 
tion ; buried up to his chin in fermenting, newly-made hay, 
and menaced, for an hour or two, by flights of angry, hungry 
crows, which, shortly after his arrival in his quarters (attracted 
by the smell of blood), had swooped down upon him, and kept 
hovering about, cawing and screaming, and wheeling and whirl- 
ing, round and round, within a foot of his face, and only de- 
terred from pecking at his eyes by the sudden movement of 
his head, and an occasional gruff whoop, which daunted them. 
About four in the morning he extricated himself from his fe- 
verish hot-bed, and retraced his steps towards the ditch in 
which his victim and his treasure were secreted. The mur 



208 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

dered body was undisturbed. He ransacked the large pockets 
of the coat, which were heavily laden with gold and silver. 
He found, also, a belt filled with bank-notes strapped round 
his waist, and under his waistcoat. With these he fled — on 
— on — till he reached the sea-port for which he was making. 
On his arrival he jumped into the first packet which was start- 
ing for America. In due time, and without any untoward ac- 
cident, he arrived at the place for which he was bound — set 
up a school there, and soon acquired a first-rate reputation as 
a teacher. At the end of thirty years of uninterrupted success, 
during which he amassed an independence, he thought he 
might safely return and settle in his native country. T think 
the first county to which he repaired was Yorkshire. He had 
not been long there before he felt irrepressible yearnings to 
revisit his birthplace, a spot fraught with miserable reminis- 
cences, yet endeared to him by the associations of early days, 
ere blood-guiltiness had poisoned his existence. Satisfied that, 
from the cessation of intercourse with friends for thirty years, 
the effects of time on his person, the wear and tear of an ar- 
duous profession, and the change produced by his altered dress 
and manners, he might defy detection, he repaired to the vil- 
lage in which he had once dwelt. 

As a precaution against risk, he thought it prudent to shun 
frequented thoroughfares, and to approach the cottage he had 
once called " home " by a by-path across the fields. In fol- 
lowing the road he had selected, he had to pass through the 
village churchyard. On entering it, he was much struck by 
the vast improvements effected since his absence. Old 
crumbling walls had been razed to the ground ; neat iron rail- 
ings had been substituted in their place ; villas of pretension 
now reared their chimneys where there had been only barns, 
hovels, and cow-sheds ; the church itself had been restored, 
and its yard extended and beautified. 

As he sat on a tombstone, smoking his pipe, and ruminat- 
ing on the strange metamorphoses of thirty years, he noticed 
that the sexton was busy digging a grave. He drew nigh, 
and, finding him to be a stranger, entered freely into conver- 



SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE'S ADVICE. 209 

sation with him. While thus engaged, the grave-digger threw 
up several human bones, of which the listless visitor took but 
little heed. Presently he jerked from his shovel, at his very 
feet, a human skull. That did not disturb him, though it was 
remarked by the sexton that he suddenly ceased talking. 
Bitter memories sat heavy on his soul. All at once his eyes 
began to open, and then became transfixed : his cheeks grew 
deadly pale, his body trembled, from the crown of his head to 
the sole of his foot. And why ? An inanimate skull could 
have no terrors for him. It could tell no tales ! no ! But 
there was that protruding from the back of the skull which 
kindled the dormant fires of conscience within him, as if they 
had been fires of hell. A nail ! He stood petrified and 
breathless ; "Cold fearful drops stood on his trembling flesh," 
and, as his gaze became more riveted, he beheld — horror of 
horrors ! — the skull turn slowly round, without any visible 
agency, and direct its empty sockets upon him. He shrieked 
out, in irrepressible agony of spirit, " Guilty ! guilty ! O 
God ! " and fell insensible to the earth. When his faculties 
were restored, he told those whom the sexton had summoned 
from the parsonage to his help, that " this was none other 
than the Lord's doing." He made an ample confession before 
the authorities, was tried, convicted, and executed. 

The seemingly miraculous incident, the moving of the skull, 
was explained on natural grounds. A dormouse, revived by 
the outer air, had woke up from his slumbers, and, in running 
from one side of his resting-place to the other, had caused the 
movement which had so disturbed and harrowed the con- 
science of the guilty one. 

Sir Thomas Lawrence's Advice. 
Went to Sir Thomas Lawrence's with Tomkison. On our 
way, after, to the Royal Academy, Tomkison told me that he 
took Sir Thomas, not long ago, to see some paintings of a 
very promising young artist, in whom he felt interest. Law- 
rence said many encouraging things to the young man, which 
he received with becoming modesty. As he was leaving, the 



2IO JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

youthful aspirant to fame said to Sir Thomas, — " You have 
been kind enough to praise what you have seen ! Would you 
give me some piece of advice which may help me in my pur- 
suits for the future ? " "I do not know that I have anything 
to say, except this," said Sir Thomas : " You have round 
your room two or three rough, clever, but coarse, Flemish 
sketches. Were I you, as a young man desirous to rise in my 
profession, I would not allow my eye to become familiarized 
with any but the highest forms of art. If you cannot afford 
to buy good oil-paintings of the first class, buy good engrav- 
ings of great pictures ; or, have nothing at all upon your walls. 
You allow, in intercourse with your fellows, that ' evil com- 
munications corrupt good manners.' So it is with pictures. 
If you allow your mind to become familiar with what in art is 
vulgar in conception, however free and dashing the handling, 
and however excellent the feeling for color, your taste will, 
insensibly, become depraved. Whereas, if you habituate your 
eye only to look on what is pure and grand, or refined and 
lovely, your taste will, insensibly, become elevated. An artist 
of well-earned reputation, who owed his position in his pro- 
fession entirely to his own genius, and who had never seen 
any of the works of the greatest painters, went with me to see 
one of the grandest collections on the continent. It was ar- 
ranged according to the different schools. It began with the 
German — the Albert Durers, the Quentin Matsys, and Hoi- 
beins. It then proceeded with the Flemish and Dutch — the 
Vandycks, the Breughels, the Ostades, the Teniers, the Ge- 
rard Dows, the Rysdaels and the Rubenses. He was so en- 
chanted with the vigor of pencil, the audacity of invention, the 
mastery of form, and the superb feeling for color which char- 
acterized the works of Rubens, that I had difficulty in drag- 
ging him away from them. We then visited the Spanish 
school, with its Murillos and Velasquez, etc. ; the Bolognese 
school, with its Guercinos and Caraccis, and Carlo Dolces 
and Guidos ; then the Venetian school, with its Tintorettos, 
and Giorgiones, and Paul Veroneses, and Titians ; and, lastly, 
the Umbrian, with its Peruginos, Francias, Michael Angelos, 



CONSTABLE THE ARTIST. 211 

and Raphaels. When the custodian came to tell us it was the 
hour for the gallery to close, my friend's taste had been so 
educated by what he had seen, and his appreciation for art 
had been so developed, that, after contemplating the heavenly 
and chastened expression of the highest Italian types, on his 
repassing the Rubenses, which a few hours before had so de- 
lighted him, he positively shuddered at their grossness, and 
hastened away from them as if he were in a low neighbor- 
hood." 

Constable the Artist. 

I sat a long time with Constable the artist, and watched 
him paint. He is a most gentle and amiable man. His works 
will have greater justice done them by posterity, when they 
have become mellowed and toned down by time. His theories 
of art are original and instructive. I was surprised to see the 
free and frequent use he makes of his palette-knife in paint- 
ing ; often, where he wants to impart force and breadth to his 
subject, preferring it to his brush. He told me that, if he 
lived in the country, and could afford it, he would never paint 
a landscape anywhere but in the open air. He told me that 
he believed most artists sketched their subjects out of doors, 
and finished them in ; and that he could always distinguish 
the parts of a picture which had been painted al fresco from 
those which had been elaborated in the studio. 

My uncle, George Young, mentioned to me a beautiful in- 
stance of Constable's imperturbable sweetness of temper. 
He called on him one day, and was received by him in his 
front room. After half an hour's chat, the artist proposed to 
repair to the back, to show him a large picture on which he 
was engaged. On walking up to his easel, he found that one 
ol his little boys, in his absence, had dashed the handle of the 
hearth-broom through the canvas, and made so large a rent in 
it as to render its restoration impossible. He called the child 
up to him, and asked him gently if he had done it. When the 
boy admitted his delinquency, he took him on his knee, and 
rebuked him in these unmeasured terms : — " Oh, my dear 



212 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

pet ! See what we have done ! Dear, dear ! What shall we 
do to mend it ? I can't think — can you f " 

Young presented at Court. 

I was this day, for the first, and I sincerely hope the last, 
time presented at the levee at St. James's. It was no "vault- 
ing ambition " on my part which caused me to " o'erleap my- 
self," but a royal summons. The fact is, Sir Horace Seymour, 
one of William the Fourth's equerries, had called on me and 
told me that the King had said to him, " I hear you have got a 
new clergyman as chaplain in Gerald Wellesley's place. Why 
has he never been to pay his duty to me ?" Sir Horace told 
his Majesty he was sure I had kept away from diffidence. 
" Nonsense ! Tell him Hampton Court Chapel is a Royal 
one ; and, as he is now its minister, I expect to see him here 
at my next levee" 

After this, I had no alternative but to submit — and go. 

Sir George Seymour was kind enough to take me in his car- 
riage, and Sir Horace to present me. Before going into the 
large waiting-room, where all the presentees were waiting for 
the doors to be thrown open, I expressed my fears to Sir 
Horace that I should be guilty of some solecism in good man- 
ners, from my utter ignorance of court usages. He ridiculed 
my nervousness, and -promised to stand by me and pilot me 
through the quicksands and shoals by which I conceived I 
must be surrounded in such a place. " Follow in the wake of 
others, and imitate their example. Bow lower than you would 
to any one else ; and, when you have kissed hands, mind you 
don't turn your back," were the simple instructions given me. 
My turn came in due time, and in spite of all the cautions I 
had had, the very instant I had kissed hands I turned my back 
upon the sovereign and hurried off. I had no sooner thus 
committed myself, and was mourning my delinquency, than 
Sir Horace came hurrying after me, and laughingly caught 
hold of my shoulders, saying, " Take heart ; your retreat has 
been covered by a Surrey baronet, who, on seeing the royal 
hand outstretched, instead of reverently kissing it, caught hold 
of it and wrunc it lustily." 



PAGAMIML 213 

Still further to comfort me in my despondency, he told me, 
that, a few days previously, at a former levee, a city alderman 
more familiar with a yard measure than a sword, in backing 
from the presence, got the martial weapon so entangled be- 
tween his legs, that he was tripped up by it and thrown pros- 
trate on the floor. As he lay floundering there, the Sailor 
King, in utter defiance of all the established rules of regal 
reserve and dignity, whispered, with infinite glee, to those 
around him, " By Jove, the fellow has caught a crab," and 
then burst into a hearty peal of laughter. 

Paganini. 

I heard Paganini. The furore there has been about this 
man has bordered on fatuity. The prices paid for seats to see 
and hear him have been fabulous. 

On the principle, I presume, of "omne ignotum pro mag- 
nifico " the great violinist has shut himself up in close confine- 
ment since his arrival in this country, and refused to receive 
any one but his entrepreneur and his dentist. In both cases 
the relaxation of his rule was a matter of necessity, and not of 
choice. With the gentleman who had engaged him he could 
not avoid making certain preliminary engagements for his 
debut. Still less could he dispense with the help of the 
dentist ; for, as nature had failed him in her supplies, art 
was called in to aid him. Sorely discomfited, on arriving in 
London, by the state of his teeth, and hearing that among the 
brethren of the profession, Cartwright was facile ftrincefts, he 
sent for him ; and after having such teeth as he had filed and 
scraped, he asked him if he could undertake to supply him 
with such as he had not by the following Thursday. The 
commission was unhesitatingly accepted, and faithfully exe- 
cuted. On Paganini's asking Cartwright what he owed for 
the service he had rendered him, the dentist assured him that 
he felt honored by having had it in his power to administei 
to the comfort of such a man ; and that the only remunera 
tfon he could think of claiming at his hands would be his 
giving him the pleasure of his company at dinner the next 
'lay. 



214 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG, 

After such extraordinary liberality, Paganini felt that he had 
no alternative but to accept the invitation so gracefully given. 
It happened that ten minutes after the great lion of the hour 
had left the door in Burlington Street, the Duke of Devon- 
shire entered it, by appointment, to have his teeth looked at. 
Cartwright asked his noble patient in the course of his 
manipulations if he had yet been fortunate enough to hear 
Paganini. The Duke said that he had tried to get him at 
Devonshire House, but had been unable to induce him to go, 
his reason for refusal being that it would not suit him to play 
in private till after his appearance in public. " Well," said 
Cartwright, " there is no rule that has not its exception, and 
I shall be very much surprised, my Lord Duke, if I do not 
hear him to-morrow." " How so ? " exclaimed his Grace. 
" Because he dines here ; and I feel sure will bring his in- 
strument with him." " Good gracious," said the Duke, " I 
wish you would ask me to meet him." Of course Cartwright 
immediately did so. The Duke told every one he called on in 
the afternoon that he was going to meet the great lion next 

day, and where. By a curious coincidence the Duke of , 

and the Duke of , and the Duke of , and the Duke 

of , instantly discovered that their teeth were much out of 

order ; and the next morning between ten o'clock and one, 
four dukes had been under Cartwright's hands, and received 
invitations to his table for the same day. The consequence 
was, that when Paganini arrived at seven p. m. to dinner, in a 
hackney-coach, expecting to meet a professional friend or two 
of his host, he found himself sitting down with the most 
aristocratic party he had ever met in his life, and among them 
the very magnate whom he had refused to honor with his 
fiddle. 

Smith's Puns. 

Dined with Mr. Jesse. Met, as one always does, a most 
agreeable party at his house. None among them shone more 
brilliantly than James Smith, one of the joint authors of 
"Rejected Addresses." His talk — for conversation it was 
not — was very racy and witty, and his memory nothing short 



SMITH'S PUNS. 215 

Df marvelous. He quoted pages of Pope and Goldsmith ; 
and sang some of his facetious songs to his own accompani- 
ment. Jesse gave me a curious instance of his ready wit. 
When he was preparing for the press his " Gleanings in 
Natural History," James Smith one day unexpectedly burst in 
upon him. The moment he saw him, he said, "My dear 
Smith, you have come in the very nick of time, as my good 
genius, to extricate me from a difficulty. You must know that 
to each of my chapters I have put an appropriate heading : 
I mean by that, that each chapter has prefixed to it a quota- 
tion from some well-known author, suited to the subject 
treated of — with one exception. I have been cudgeling my 
brains for a motto for my chapter on ' Crows and Rooks,' 
and cannot think of one. Can you ? " " Certainly, 7 ' said he, 
with felicitous promptitude, " Here is one from Shakespeare 
for you ! 

" ' The cause (caws), my soul, the cause (ca\vs). r ,! 

After dinner we were talking of divers incongruities in 
language, genders, and grammar as a science. I had the 
effrontery to say that it had always struck me that grammars 
might be very much simplified in their construction : and that 
there was one error common to the grammars of the one or 
two languages with which I had any familiarity which I should 
like to see corrected — namely, the giving the rule before the 
definition : that this was putting the cart before the horse ; 
and I fancied that, if a number of instances were given first, 
from which the scholar saw that " an adjective agreed with its 
subjective in gender, number, and case," he would deduce the 
rule almost for himself : whereas, according to the present 
system, the pupil must accept the rule as arbitrarily defined, 
without understanding it, until the definitions made it clear. 
There was so much quotation from Home Tooke, and Harris, 
and Priestly, and Lord Monboddo, that I began to feel I was 
getting out of my depth, and therefore made a diversion by 
remarking the singular fact that though the sun in most 
languages was masculine, in German it was feminine ; and 
the moon, usually feminine, masculine. " By the by," said I, 



216 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

"if I recollect rightly, in Latin, the names of rivers are 
generally masculine." "I forget," said James Smith, "but 
that can't be the invariable rule in English, for the two great 
American rivers must be feminine — Miss-souri and Miss- 
sisippi." 

Count Danniskiold. 

The Count is a Dane of high rank, an accomplished man, 
and one of the most elegant dancers in Europe. He speaks 
English admirably, and rarely makes a blunder. However, 
he made an amusing one last night. He was being bantered 

on having paid marked attention to one of the Miss C 's, a 

young lady in the neighborhood, reputed rich, but rather plain. 
On some one saying, " You can't admire her looks, Count ! " he 
replied, in a deprecating tone, " Come, come — you are a leetle 
hard upon me. She may not be beautiful, but, I must say, I 
tink she has a sweet expression in some of her eyes." 

The Pillar of Gold. 

Shortly after taking up my residence at Hampton Court, I 
went to call on Mrs. Boehm, at her apartments in the palace. 
She was the widow of a very wealthy West Indian merchant, 
who had retired from business, and had purchased the estate 
of Ottershaw. Their benevolence to the poor, their reputation 
for hospitality, and their proximity to Oatlands, soon recom- 
mended them to the notice of the Duke and Duchess of York, 
who conceived regard for them, and introduced them into the 
very highest circles. 

On being shown into the vacant drawing-room, and after ad- 
miring a very large full-length portrait of a handsome lady 
playing the harp, which I afterwards heard was meant for Mrs. 
Boehm's self in younger days, I observed an ornament in the 
centre of her table, remarkable rather for its material value 
than for any originality in its design. It was a pillar of solid 
gold ; I should think of some twelve inches in height, with a 
square base, if I recollect aright. . I was stooping to decipher 
the inscription, when its owner herself entered. Perceiving 
now I was engaged, she begged me to suspend any further in- 
vestigation until she had told me its history. 



THE PILLAR OF GOLD. 217 

" You must understand, Mr. Young, that the object you were 
looking at was presented to me by his Royal Highness the 
Prince Regent in commemoration of an event of great histor- 
ical importance which occurred under my roof when I lived in 
St. James's Square. I allude to no less a fact than the first 
news of the success of our arms at Waterloo." 

On my manifesting some curiosity to hear the details of a 
scene of such rare and exceptional interest, the good lady, 
nothing loth, with an air of pride at the recollection of departed 
glories, mingled with mortification at their collapse, proceeded 
with her narrative. 

" Ah ! Mr. Young, very few of his Majesty's subjects ever 
had a more superb assembly collected together than I had on 
the night of the 21st of June, 1815. That dreadful night ! Mr. 
Boehm had spared no cost to render it the most brilliant party 
of the season ; but all to no purpose. Never did a party, prom- 
ising so much, terminate so disastrously ! All our trouble, 
anxiety, and expense were utterly thrown away in consequence 
of — what shall I say ? Well, I must say it — the unseason- 
able declaration of the Waterloo victory ! Of course, one was 
very glad to think one had beaten those horrid French, and all 
that sort of thing ; but still, I always shall think it would have 
been far better if Henry Percy had waited quietly till the morn- 
ing, instead of bursting in upon us, as he did, in such indecent 
haste ; and even if he had told the Prince alone, it would have 
been better ; for I have no doubt his Royal Highness would 
have shown consideration enough for my feelings not to pub- 
lish the news till the next morning." 

She then went on to give me a formidable list of the distin- 
guished persons who had reflected the lustre of their presence 
on her party ; laying special stress on the names of two or 
three Princes of the Blood Royal. In her somewhat discursive 
account, she stated that, while in the act of receiving her vis- 
itors to the dinner which preceded the ball, as she was stand- 
ing by the Prince Regent, the groom of the chambers, in a loud 
and pompous voice, shouted forth, " Their Royal Highnesses 
the Duke of Sussex and Prince Augustus of Sussex ! " — (since 



21 8 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

better known by the humbler title of Sir Augustus d'Este). On 
hearing this announcement, the Regent, with eyes flashing and 
color heightened, turned his back on his brother of Sussex, 
and said to the Duke of York, who was standing next to him, 
" Frederick, tell Adolphus from me, that if he ever allows that 
young man to assume that title again, he and I do not speak 
to each other." 

" After dinner was over, and the ladies had gone up-stairs, 
and the gentlemen had joined them, the ball guests began to 
arrive. They came with unusual punctuality, out of deference 
to the Regent's presence. After a proper interval, I walked 
up to the Prince, and asked if it was his Royal Highness's 
pleasure that the ball should open. The first quadrille was in 
the act of forming, and the Prince was walking up to the dais 
on which his seat was placed, when I saw every one without 
the slightest sense of decorum rushing to the windows, which 
had been left w T ide open because of the excessive sultriness of 
the w r eather. The music ceased and the dance was stopped ; 
for we heard nothing but the vociferous shouts of an enormous 
mob, who had just entered the Square, and were running by 
the side of a post-chaise and four, out of whose windows were 
hanging three nasty French eagles. In a second the door of 
the carriage was flung open, and, without waiting for the steps 
to be let down, out sprang Henry Percy — such a dusty figure ! 
— with a flag in each hand, pushing aside every one who hap- 
pened to be in his way, darting up stairs, into the ball-room, 
stepping hastily up to the Regent, dropping on one knee, lay- 
ing the flags at his feet, and pronouncing the words, i Victory, 
Sir ! Victory ! ' The Prince Regent, greatly overcome, went 
into an adjoining room to read the dispatches ; after a while he 
returned, said a few sad words to us, sent for his carriage, and 
left the house. The Royal brothers soon followed suit ; and 
in less than twenty minutes there was not a soul left in the 
ball-room but poor dear Mr. Boehm and myself. Such a scene 
of excitement, anxiety, and confusion never was witnessed be- 
fore or since, I do believe ! Even the band had gone, not only 
without uttering a word of apology, but even without taking a 



SIR HORACE SEYMOUR. 2IC/ 

mouthful to eat. The splendid supper which had been pro- 
vided for our guests stood in the dining-room untouched. La- 
dies of the highest rank, who had not ordered their carriages 
till four o'clock A. M., rushed away, like maniacs, in their mus- 
lins and satin shoes, across the Square ; some accompanied by 
gentlemen, others without escort of any kind ; all impatient to 
learn the fate of those dear to them ; many jumping into the 
first stray hackney-coach they fell in with, and hurrying on to 
the Foreign Office or Horse Guards, eager to get a sight of the 
List of Killed and Wounded." 

Sir Horace Seymour. 

In height, he was six feet four inches, and, like Poins, " a 
proper fellow of his hands." His mein was princely ; and his 
smile so gracious, and his reputation for daring so established, 
that he rarely entered a drawing-room without fluttering the 
pulses of that sex who are even more sensitive to bravery than 
to beauty. With George IV. he was an extraordinary favorite. 
He entertained such an admiration for his handsome looks 
and figure, that, whenever he designed any alteration in the 
uniform of his regiments — which was very often — he always 
had the patterns fitted to his figure. And he had such an 
exalted estimate of his courage, and so little reliance on his 
own, that he delighted to have him near his person. He 
would submit to negligences, ignorances, over-sights, and 
shortcomings from him which he would not have tolerated 
from one of his own brothers. 

On one occasion, for instance, either at the Cottage at Vir- 
ginia Water or at the Pavilion (I forget which), Seymour, in 
waltzing, knocked over a magnificent China jar of great price. 
To the astonishment of all present, instead of the Regent's 
giving way to wrath, he merely put his hand gently on the 
offender's shoulder, smiled, and said with infinite good humor, 
" My dear Horace, what a careless fellow you are ! " He 
tried hard, on the eve of his coronation, to induce Mr. Dy- 
moke, through the intercession of Lord Willoughby d'Eresby, 
to waive his rights as champion, in favor of his protege ; but 
to no purpose. 



220 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

The late Marquis of Anglesey, who had had abundant op 
portunities .of witnessing Horace Seymour's feats of personal 
prowess (for he had been his body aide-de-camp at Waterloo), 
declared one day at dinner, at Admiral Bowater's, that, in the 
final pursuit at Waterloo, at least, after the last great charge, 
he saw him, in imitation of the French (whose swordmanship, 
by the by, he has often extolled to me), charge " at point " 
and pink out of their saddles, by sheer force of arm and length 
of sword, six or seven cuirassiers, one after the other. 

The Marquis of Anglesey, then Earl of Uxbridge, at a par- 
ticular crisis in the battle of Waterloo, seeing the Cumberland 
regiment of Hanoverian hussars considerably in the reat on 
the Brussels road, ordered them forward, and posted them in 
a position as little exposed as possible. " But, as soon as the 
shot began to fly about them a little, the colonel and his whole 
regiment took themselves out of the field. Lord Uxbridge," 
says Siborne, " ordered Captain Horace Seymour (as he then 
was) to go to the colonel, and insist on his return. Colonel 
Hake told him he had no confidence in his men, who were 
mere volunteers, and that their horses were their own. The 
regiment continued moving to the rear, notwithstanding Cap- 
tain Seymour's repeating the order to halt, and asking the 
second in command to save the honor and character of the 
corps by placing himself at its head, and fronting the men. 
Finding his remonstrances produced no effect, he laid hold of 
the bridle of the colonel's horse, and commented on his con- 
duct in terms such as no man of honor could have been ex- 
pected to listen to unmoved. This officer, however, appeared 
perfectly callous to any sense of shame, and far more disposed 
to submit to these attacks upon his honor, than he had been 
to receive those of the enemy upon his person and his regi- 
ment. Upon rejoining the Earl of Uxbridge, and relating 
what had passed, Captain Seymour was again directed to pro- 
ceed to the commanding officer, and to desire that, if he per- 
severed in refusing to resume his position in the line, he 
would at least form the regiment across the high-road out of 
fire. But even this order was disregarded, and the corps 



SIR HORACE SEYMOUR. 221 

went altogether to the rear, spreading alarm and confusion all 
the way to Brussels." 

Mr. Siborne is considered such high authority, that I sup- 
pose his statement may be relied upon ; though I have heard 
from a member of the family that Seymour caught hold of the 
recreant colonel by the collar, threw him out of his saddle, 
and offered to lead the men into action himself : but that they 
had been so infected by the cowardice of their colonel, that 
they instantly turned tail and gallopped off to Brussels ventre 
a terre. 

It is a rather singular coincidence that Sir Horace should 
have been the first to see Picton fall, and the first to hear 
from Lord Uxbridge's lips of the shot which rendered the am- 
putation of his leg necessary. In stating the first of these 
circumstances, Siborne mentions that Picton's death, " which 
was instantaneous, was first observed by the Earl of Ux- 
bridge's aide-de-camp, Captain Horace Seymour, whom he 
was at the moment desiring to rally the Highlanders. Cap- 
tain Seymour, whose own horse was just then falling, imme- 
diately called the attention of Picton's aide-de-camp, Captain 
Tyler, to the fact of the general having been wounded ; and 
in the next moment the hero's lifeless corpse was, with the 
assistance of a private soldier of the nearest regiment, borne 
off from his charger by that officer." 

With regard to the circumstances attending Lord Uxbridge's 
wound, I find my recollection of Sir Horace's account of it to 
me again at variance with that of Siborne's statement. In 
saying this, however, I must repeat that my memory has al- 
ways been a very bad one ; and that, therefore, the represen- 
tation of one, who has taken conscientious pains in verifying 
facts, as Siborne has done, is not to be impugned. 

My impression is, that Sir Horace told me it was late in the 
evening, after the Prussians had come up, and when he was 
riding off the field in company with Lord Uxb ridge, that his 
companion said to him, " I'm hit ! " " Oh ! surely," said 
Seymour, " it is fancy." " No : I am hit, and by a spent ball. 
Get off your horse, and judge for yourself." Sir Horace then 



222 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

dismounted, and Lord Uxbridge guided his finger to the spot 
" Feel — feel," said he ; and as Seymour did so, his finger 
went into a small hole, in which, he said, he could distinctly 
feel bits of bone grating against each other like so many small 
shells. 

With help, he lifted him from his saddle, and forthwith con- 
veyed him to the neighboring village of Waterloo, where his 
leg was amputated. During the operation Lord Uxbridge in- 
dulged in jokes at his own expense ; saying, he should lose 
ground in the esteem of the ladies by the loss of his leg ; 
" for," said he, " as legs go, it was not a bad one." 

In one of my many rides with Sir Horace, I asked him if 
the pictures of Lord Uxbridge, with his drawn sword, charg- 
ing at the head of his cavalry, and leading them into action, 
were to be considered as truthful, and to be taken an pied de 
la lettre. " Yes," said he. " But was it right for one in such 
a responsible position to put himself forward as he did ? " 
" Perhaps not," he replied, " strictly speaking. It was wrong. 
But the fact was he put himself into unnecessary peril ; not, I 
fear, so much from a desire to animate his followers by his 
example, as because he sought death, being at that time 
weary of life ; he was so miserable in his domestic relations. 
I will give you a proof of it. At one moment when it was 
• pouring with rain, he tore off his oil-skin from his busby, that 
his rank in the service, defined by the ornament in front of 
the cap, might make him the more conspicuous a mark. Just 

before the great charge of [I think he said the Life 

Guards at Genappe], he cried out to me with a fierce reck- 
lessness of tone, ' Now, Horace, which of us will be in among 
them first ? ' He dug his spurs into his horse's sides, and 
took the lead of us all." Whether this was the charge of 
which Sir Andrew Barnard used to speak, I cannot say. But 
he declared that, in one charge, he saw Sir Horace dash into 
the very centre of a dense body of cavalry, and, by the weight 
of his horse, the length of his sword, and the strength of his 
arm, cleave his way clean through them. On turning lound 
to see where he was, he found himself alone in the enemy's 



SIR HORACE SEYMOUR. 223 

lines. Ox course he thought the game was all up with him. 
But, favored by the smoke in which he was enveloped, he 
turned his horse's head ; and, resolved to sell his life dearly, 
charged through them back again from behind. The enemy's 
troops, seeing one man alone among them, at first were puz- 
zled to know whether he were friend or foe ; and impressed 
by his handsome uniform, his stature and bearing, instinct- 
ively fell back, and made a lane for him to pass through. 
While taking advantage of their doubts or their courtesy — 

whichever it may have been — he descried his friend D 

standing by some guns, a prisoner. It was the work of a 
second for Seymour, flinging back his left leg, and crying out 
" Quick, quick ! jump ! I've a stirrup to spare," to catch hold 

of D by the breech, throw him across the pommel of his 

saddle, as if he had been a sack of corn, and gallop off with 
hiin. Both escaped, as if by miracle, for many shots were 
fired after them, as soon as the French discovered their mis- 
take. 

I heard Sir George Seymour tell the following story of his 
brother's bravery when I was once staying with him at Lord 
Yarborough's, at Appuldurcombe : — 

"On one of the four days, the 15th, 16th, 17th, or 18th, I 
cannot say which, there was, as if by common consent, as 
thorough a suspension of hostilities as if there had been an 
armistice. A stream ran between the opposing forces, to 
which the troops on either side eagerly repaired, for the pur- 
pose of slaking their raging thirst ; and those who had re- 
cently been engaged in deadly xombat were good-humoredly 
chaffing each other, when a gigantic soldier came forward 
from out the French ranks, and challenged any man in the 
English to meet him in single combat. ' Do you hear that, 
Horace,' said one of a group of cavalry officers who were col- 
lected together. ' Yes, I hear it ! ' said he, with clenched 
teeth. In another second he leaped his horse across the 
brook, dashed in among the French ranks, and in the siglt of 
joth armies fought with and slew the boastful Goliath." 

This dauntless Paladin, where his affections were involved, 



224 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

could be as gentle as a woman. When first I made his ac- 
quaintance, he had but recently lost his beautiful wife. No 
man ever suffered under such bereavement more poignantly. 
For many weeks he was nearly beside himself. At her burial, 
his violence was uncontrollable. He flur.g himself wildly on 
her coffin, and it took six strong men to drag him out of her 
gfave. Long after her death he refused to see any but the 
membeis of his own family and myself. Although in his 
earlier days he had a reputation for gallantry, which was not 
confined to the battle-field, he became, after marriage, the 
most loyal and devoted of husbands. If any surviving mem- 
bers of his family should chance to cast their eyes on these 
pages, I hope, in consideration of the lapse of nearly forty 
years, they will forgive me if I mention a little illustration of 
the tenderness of this beau sabreur. He, one day, thrust into 
my hand one of his boy's lesson books, on which there was in- 
dented a nail mark of their mother's, which defined the limit 
of a task prescribed. I never shall forget the passion with 
which he kissed it, and then rushed to his bedroom to vent in 
solitude the anguish of his heart. 

John. Wilson Croker. 

John Wilson Croker was a faithful public servant, and a 
passionate partisan. For one-and-twenty years he sat at the 
Admiralty Board, its influential and indefatigable secretary. 
For five-and-twenty years he was an active member of the 
senate ; prompt and effective in debate ; a master of detail ; 
one of the pillars of the Tory party. For forty years he filled 
a prominent position, if not an elevated one, in the world of 
letters in which, if he had the reputation of meting hard 
measure to others, it was certainly measured to him again. 
Perhaps few men, who lived within the last half century, con- 
trived to provoke a greater amount of personal hostility than 
Croker. He was a man of vast and versatile ability, of singu- 
lar astuteness, of great powers of application, of a high sense 
of duty ; but possessed an asperity of temperament which 
caused him to take a pessimist view of everything which came 
within his keen but narrow scrutiny. 



JOHN WILSON CROKER. 225 

Against the consistency of his political career I doubt if 
anything could be advanced by his bitterest antagonists ; 

' ' He was constant as the Northern Star, 
Of whose true, fixt, and resting quality 
There was no fellow in the firmament " 

of St. Stephen's. During a transition period, when even such 
men as the Iron Duke were forced to sacrifice their convic- 
tions, and bend to the pressure of imperious necessity, Croker 
stood firm as a rock. Believing, as he honestly did, that re- 
form, if carried, would be the inevitable precurser of revolu- 
tion, he adhered doggedly to the old traditional policy to which 
he had been attached ; and opposed, with might and main, the 
doctrines of progress, which he felt persuaded would tend to 
the subversion of the monarchy, and the undermining of our 
most venerable institutions — especially the Church. I re- 
member, in speaking of the perils of the Establishment, his 
saying, 

u C'est un vieux batiment, si on y touche, il crulera" 

The virulence with which he assailed political opponents, and 
the merciless energy with which he slashed and tomahawked 
the writings both of friends and foes in the pages of the 
" Quarterly," begot an accumulation of antipathy to him which 
would have crushed a man of ordinary sensibility ; but made 
only a transitory impression on his hardy and impenetrable 
nature. 

The majority of the present generation, who have derived 
their impression of him either from Mr. Disraeli's able but 
sarcastic delineation of him under the character of Rigby, or 
else from the reports of those who have writhed under the 
lash of his incisive invective — will naturally think of him as 
one of the least lovable of men. But, however he may have 
abused his critical acumen to the pain and prejudice of others, 
in private life he exhibited qualities deserving of respect and 
admiration. To the poor and friendless he was generous : 
when not blinded by party feeling, he was conscientious ; in 
the face of perpetual opposition, he was courageous. He was 
a tender husband, and an indulgent father. He had stuff 



226 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

enough in him for the making of a great statesman, though he 
hardly ever attained to that rank in public estimation. It is a 
notorious fact, that during the debates on the reform ques- 
tion, he took the wind out of Peel's sails. The fact was, that 
shortly before the bill came into committee, Croker had been 
confined to his bed for many days by serious indisposition. 
During that time, as he lay on his back, he studied the con- 
tents of every schedule, dissected them with anatomical pre- 
cision, and sniffed out every unsavory clause that could be 
objected to. The consequence was, that when he had arisen 
from his bed, and found himself again on the floor of the 
House of Commons, he displayed such intimate knowledge of 
his subject, that Peel, who, from the multiplicity of his avoca- 
tions, had not had leisure to devote the same study to the 
question, gladly gave to him the pas, and allowed him not 
only to bear the burden and the heat, but to win the honors 
of the battle. He so signalized himself on this occasion by 
his adroitness, that he astonished the most rancorous of his 
opponents, and greatly enhanced his reputation with the lead- 
ers of his party. From that time Peel never neglected to con- 
sult him on every great question that came before him. I told 
him that I had heard as much, and asked him if it were true. 
" Yes," said he, " he always asks my advice, and never takes 
it." From that time the Duke of Wellington gave him more 
and more of his confidence ; and on his coming to power, 
offered him high place in his administration ; but his health 
had been so shattered by the extraordinary excitement and 
exertion which he had undergone during the Reform agita- 
tion, that his wife exacted a promise from him that he would 
never accept office, or sit in a reformed House of Commons. 
His dread of the consequences to the country through the ad- 
mission of the Reform Bill was quite genuine, though, as the 
event has proved, greatly exaggerated. 

I heard him tell Theodore Hook and the late Mr. Jesse, at 
his own table, that he had warned Lord Palmerston, the very 
last day he saw him in the House of Commons, of the prob- 
able fruits which he might expect to reap from the seed he 



JOHN WILSON CROKER. 22? 

had sown : in plain words, the consequences of what he des- 
ignated as his unpatriotic conduct in having aided in the pass- 
ing of the Reform Bill through Parliament. " Well, Palmer- 
ston, you have raised the whirlwind, but you. will never live to 
ride on it, nor direct the storm which will follow. I leave this 
house forever, a sadder, if not a wiser, man ! All I pray for 
is a few brief years of political peace before I lay my head on 
my pillow and give up the ghost. You will go on your way 
exulting for a while ; but probably will be, one day, impeached, 
and have to lay your head upon the block." False prophet as 
he has proved, his predictions were sincere. 

I was one day dining with him at his house at Moulsey, when 
he dilated at great length, and with much gloom, on the disas- 
ters he had augured for England to King William the Fourth. 
"When William the Fourth," he said, "was Duke of Clarence 
and Lord High Admiral, I was, of course, as Secretary to the 
Admiralty, brought into frequent and intimate relations with 
him. 1 found him invariably frank and straightforward. He 
did not resent my being so too. You may remember — for it 
is matter of notoriety — that I opposed him tooth and nail 
when he amused himself at the public expense by squandering 
such heavy sums as he did on salutes, etc., etc. One day, after 
he had succeeded to the throne, he sent for me, telling me that 
he wished to talk over the bill with me. I was greatly struck 
by the magnanimity with which he permitted me to speak my 
mind. Think of my having dared to say as follows : ' Sire, 
when you yielded your high sanction to this bill, you admitted 
the justice of numerical representation in preference to repre- 
sentation according to property and intelligence. With all due 
deference to your Majesty, this was a lamentable error. In 
making this unreasonable concession to your subjects, you 
have played the part of the old Charlies, the very men who. 
salaried as they were to be the guardians of the public peace, 
and the conservators of public property, used to let in the 
thieves. Thus has your Majesty, the natural guardian of the 
institution, and the conservator of monarchical principles, by 
Dpening the door to a vicious principle, let in the thieves. I 



228 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

see you smile, Sire. You may not live to see the consequences 
of your own acts, but they are none the less inevitable. If I 
strike a defenseless woman on the breast, I may see no signs 
of my own cruelty for years ; but in course of time my blow 
produces cancer, and she dies. And I conceive that when you 
affixed your sign manual to the Reform Bill, you, unwittingly 
no doubt, struck so deadly a blow against the breast of poor 
Britannia, that, ere long, it will engender a political cancer 
which will gradually eat out the very vitals of our beautiful 
constitution, republicanize our most venerable institutions, and 
upset the throne itself into the mud ! ' " 

I suspect few people now alive are aware of the commence- 
ment of Croker's career in Xondon. Horace Smith, James's 
brother, and one of the joint authors of " Rejected Addresses," 
told me that he, his brother, and Cumberland, formed the staff 
of the " Morning Post " when Colonel Mellish was its sole 
proprietor. On a certain quarter-day, when he was in the 
habit of meeting them at the office and paying them their sal- 
ary, he took occasion to pass on them unqualified commenda- 
tion for the great ability they had brought to bear upon his 
journal. He assured them that the circulation of the paper 
had quadrupled since their connection with it ; "but — but — 
that he was, nevertheless, under the necessity of dispensing 
with their pens for the future." The two Smiths were so ut- 
terly unprepared for such a declaration, that they were tongue- 
tied. Not so the testy Cumberland, who took care to make 
himself as clearly understood as if he had been the veritable 
sir Fretful Plagiary. 

" What," he asked his employer, " the D 1 do you mean ? 

In the same breath in which you laud your servants to the 
skies, and express your sense of obligation to them, you dis- 
charge them even without the usual month's warning ! " 

Mellish, quite unmoved, replied : " You must know, good 
Sirs, that I care for my paper, not for its principles, but as an 
investment : and it stands to reason, that the heavier my out- 
goings, the less my profits. I do, as I have said, value your 
merits highly ; but not as highly as you charge me for them 



EFFECT OF MILITARY MUSIC. 229 

Now, in future, I can command the services of one man, who 
will do the work of three for the wage of one." 

" The deuce you can," said Cumberland. " He must be a 
phoenix. Where, pray, may this omniscient genius be met 
with ? " 

" In the next room ! I will send him to you." 

As he left, a young man entered, with a well-developed skull, 
a searching eye, and a dauntless address. 

" So, sir," screamed out Cumberland, " you must have an un- 
common good opinion of yourself ! You consider yourself, I 
am told, three times as able as any one of us ; for you under- 
take to do an amount of work, single-handed, which we have 
found enough for us all." " I am not afraid," said the young 
man, with imperturbable sang froid, "of doing all that is re- 
quired of me." They all three then warned him of the tact, 
discretion, and knowledge of books and men required ; of the 
difficulties by which he must expect to find an enterprise of 
such magnitude beset, etc., etc. They began then to sound 
his depth ; but on politics, belles lettres, political economy, even 
the drama, they found him far from shallow. Cumberland, 
transported out of himself by his modest assurance, snatched 
up his hat, smashed it on his head, rammed snuff incontinently 
up his nose, and then rushed by Mellish who was in the ad- 
joining room, swearing and saying as he left, " Confound the 
potato. He's so tough, there's no peeling him ! " The tough 
potato was John Wilson Croker. 

Effect of Military Music. 

A young man, of good family and considerable expectations, 
was appointed to the diplomatic staff of our ambassador at 
Petersburg. On his first appearance at dinner on the day of 
his arrival, the principal topic of conversation was the forth- 
coming fete of the year, about to be celebrated, if I am not 
mistaken, in the Church of St. Isaac. 

The ambassador, turning affably to the young stranger, con- 
gratulated him on his good fortune in having arrived in time 
for the celebration. " I doubt," said he, " if in any othe? 



230 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG, 

court in Europe you can see a more august ceremonial than 
that at which you will be present next week. By the by, 
don't forget that there is a seat set apart for you in my box 
as one of my staff." 

The young man bowed respectfully, but with an air of in- 
difference. 

The following day, having had an interview with his chief 
concerning the contents of certain papers and letters which 
he had been desired to copy, on retiring he thus addressed 
him : — 

." My Lord, you were kind enough yesterday to promise me 
what most persons in my position would deem a great treat, 
namely, a seat in your box, from which to witness this festival 
of which every one is talking. Will you think me very odd if 
I ask permission to absent myself on the occasion ? " 

Ambassador. " I should, indeed ! What possible reason 
can you assign for such caprice ? " 

Attache. "There will, I conceive, be military music. If 
so, — I must be frank with your Lordship, at the risk of 
provoking your- ridicule, or even of incurring your displeas-* 
ure, — I cannot be present. I have the strongest possible 
objection to all military music." 

Ambassador. " Oh, you object on religious grounds to 
martial music in the house of God, do you ? " 

Attache. " My Lord, however inappropriate I may think 
military music in the house of God, my unwillingness to be 
present there arises from lower and more selfish motives. 
You will smile, my Lord, when I tell you that I have an 
insuperable antipathy to the sound of a drum. I have lived 
so retired a life on my father's estate in the country, that 
I had never heard it but once in my life, and that was the 
other day, after a night spent in Paris on my road hither. 
I had fully intended staying there some days, but while in 
bed at the Hotel Bristol I heard the tramp of a regiment of 
soldiers marching down the Rue Castiglione to the sound of 
military music. I rushed to the window to see them, when 
suddenly I heard the rappel. Owing, I presume, to some 



EFFECT OF MILITARY MUSIC. 2$ I 

nervoas sensibility peculiar to my organization, I felt a torture 
so excruciating that I despair of describing it. I staggered to 
my bed, a faintness came over me, and my respiration became 
so seriously affected that I thought I must have died on the 
spot. I rang the bell violently for help, and after taking some 
sal-volatile and brandy, recovered sufficiently to pack up my 
things, ask for my bill, pay it, and hasten hither as fast as I 
could. You can now make allowance for my weakness in 
wishing to escape the recurrence of a similar infliction a 
second time." 

The noble Lord laughed heartily at what he heard, and de- 
clared that if he allowed him to yield to such weakness he 
should consider he was helping to make him a confirmed 
hypochondriac. " My dear fellow," he went on to say, " did 
you ever tell your parents of this silly infirmity of yours ? " 
" No, my Lord." " Then I am sure they will applaud me 
for not countenancing such folly ; therefore I tell you dis- 
tinctly I shall expect you to accompany me to the function. " 
The young man felt it his duty to bow to his chief's decision, 
and therefore determined at all hazards to go. As the great 
day drew nigh, he told his confreres of the serious apprehen- 
sions by which he was beset ; but got no more consideration 
from them than from their principal. At last the dreaded day 
arrived. The procession formed. Seats in the cathedral were 
set apart for ministers of state, the nobility, and the corps 
diplomatique. As the latter defiled by, the youngest attache, 
according to the laws of precedence, took the last and lowest 
seat. When every one had been placed, space was kept by 
the military for the procession, which was composed of eccle- 
siastics of different grades, princes, prelates, and officers of 
distinction. Suddenly, outside the western gate was heard 
the clang of cymbals, the blast of trumpets, and the rub-a-dub 
of the great drum. On hearing it the ambassador, with a 
smile of ironical significance, looked past his followers to see 
the effect produced on his sensitive protege. He was on the 
floor of the box — dead! On a post-mortem examination, it 
appeared that the shock to his finely-strung nervous system 
had cai sed a rupture of one of the valves of the heart 



232 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

Anecdotes of the French Police. 

Dr. B was calling on my uncle to-day in Brighton. 

The subject of conversation on the tapis was the lamentable 
defects of our police regulations compared with those of Paris. 

Dr. B said that he considered he owed his life to the 

system of espionage prevalent in that town ; and told the 
following tale in proof of it : — 

Dr. B was a retired physician, who, having realized a 

handsome competency, dedicated much of his leisure to the 
cultivation of science. While engaged in a botanical tour 
through Switzerland, he received intelligence from Paris of 
the sudden death of one of his most valued friends. A letter 
from his widow informed him that he had been appointed, by 
her deceased husband, co-guardian and trustee with her to her 
son and daughter. She expressed an earnest hope that, as 
soon as he conveniently could, he would join her in Paris, 
and give her the benefit of his counsel under very trying 
circumstances. Thus appealed to, he conceived he had no 
alternative but to set out for Paris without further delay. On 
applying at the Messagerie, at Geneva, for a place in the 
diligence, he found every one both in the interieur and in the 
coupe bespoken, so that he had no choice but to sit with the 
co7iducteur in the banquette, whose good-will he soon won by 
his affability and freedom from hauteur. The journey was 
accomplished without any impediment until, as they were ap- 
proaching the barriere at the entry into Paris, the conducteur, 
breaking off in the midst of a lively conversation he was 

having with Dr. B , and directing his voice to the " in- 

sides," hallooed out, " Messieurs et Mesdames, preparez vos 

passeports." Dr. B , in obedience to this summons, thrust 

his hand first into the breast pocket of his great-coat, and 
dien into the hind pockets of his frock, in search of his pass- 
port ; but, to his consternation, could find it nowhere. What 
had become of it he never was able to discover. He thought 
it might have dropped out of his great-coat when he had flung 
it carelessly over the roof of the vehicle ; but, whatever the 



ANECDOTES OF THE FRENCH POLICE. 233 

cause of the misfortune, the effect was to involve him in a 
dilemma which might have jeopardized his liberty. In his 
distress he thought it best to tell the conducteur what had 
befallen him, and throw himself on his good-nature. On being 
appealed to, he told him that the only chance by which he 
could hope to escape the notice of the official at the barrierc 
would be by having recourse to the following ruse : " Lie 
down," said he, " at the bottom of the banquette, under the 
leathern apron which has hitherto covered our knees ; and 
while I step down from my seat on the left side, and the gen- 
cParme is occupied in collecting passports from the passengers 
in the interieur, creep out from under your covert on the right 
side, and mingle unhesitatingly with the crowd. I will engage 
the attention of the receiver of the passports till you are out of 
sight. He will not suspect me of conniving to deceive him — 
first, because I have never yet shown a disposition to do so ; 
secondly, because he would never think me such a fool as to 
run the risk of discharge and imprisonment for the sake of 
serving a total stranger." 

Dr. B adopted the friendly suggestion, and found it 

successful. As soon as the diligence had cleared the barriere, 
he jumped up again into his seat without any comment from 
the driver, who concluded that the conducteur would never 
have sanctioned his descent from his place unless he had 
previously surrendered his passport. On reaching his des- 
tination Dr. B rewarded the guard munificently for his 

services, and promised never to betray him. 

After he had taken possession of his bed-room at his hotel 
he had a hasty dinner, and then made the best of his way to 
the residence of his late friend's widow. He found her and 
her daughter plunged in deep distress, though greatly com- 
forted by his arrival. The mother, after furnishing him with 
details of her husband's last moments, disclosed to him the 
fruitful cause of her anxieties. The chief of them arose from 
her apprehensions as to the future of her only son — a young 
man barely one-and-twenty, not deficient in good qualities, but 
likely to be seduced into evil courses through infirmity of 



234 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

purpose. She described him as having become negligent of 
his sister at the very time when she most needed his sym- 
pathy, and as having grown impatient of maternal control. 
His deterioration of character she attributed to the influence 
of certain young men of high rank and low morale, who had 
acquired undue ascendancy over him, and had inoculated him 
with a passion for play. She implored her co-trustee to exer- 
cise every influence he could bring to bear upon her wayward 
boy, to wean him from so ruinous and degrading a propensity. 

Dr. B , conscious of the delicacy and difficulty of the task 

imposed upon him, consented to undertake it on one condition 
only, namely, that she would not attempt to oppose the tactics 
he might choose to adopt, however incomprehensible they 
might seem, but confide in his discretion and good faith. To 
this proposition she assented, begging him at the same time to 
dine with her next day, so that he might have an opportunity 
of reviving acquaintance with the young man, whom he had 
not seen for some years. 

The youth himself, aware of the high place Dr. B had 

filled in his father's esteem, and of the relation in which they 
now stood to each other — namely, that of ward and guardian, 
— anticipated no great satisfaction from the meeting. His re- 
serve, however, rapidly melted away under the genial warmth 
of his mentor's cordiality. When his mother and sister had 
left the dinner table, the. Doctor entered into conversation 
with his young friend with a vivacity that fascinated him. He 
proposed that they should go the next night to the opera, and 
afterwards look in at Frascati's, the great gambling-house of 
those days. As soon as the Doctor's back was turned, the 
mother was surprised to hear her son launch forth loudly in 
his praise, declaring that he was a " trump," and that he no 

longer wondered at his father's partiality for him. Dr. B , 

having little reliance on the permanent effect of moral lectures 
delivered by an old man to a young one of vicious tendencies, 
preferred to gain his confidence by affecting community of 
rastes, and pretending afterwards to be penetrated with re- 
morse, trying by argument to induce him to join him in lh<? 



ANECDOTES OF THE FRENCH POLICE. 235 

abandonment of a habit, the disastrous consequences of which 
he took care to paint in appalling colors. With the object of 
achieving so praiseworthy an end he was content, if necessary, 
to sacrifice fifty or sixty napoleons. 

The following night, after the opera, the} sallied forth for 

the gambling-table. Dr. B rushed up to it with well 

feigned avidity, and staked his money freely, persuaded in 
his own mind that from his utter ignorance of games of 
chance he must soon be a loser. To his amazement he met 
with an uninterrupted flow of good fortune, so that when he 
rose at three a. m. from the table, to his own disconcertment 
and the envy of his companion, his trowser and coat pockets 
were so full of louis d'or that it was only by holding them to- 
gether he kept them from rolling out upon the floor. When 
invited, rather peremptorily by the croupier, to remain, and 
give his adversaries their revenge, he pleaded the hour in ex- 
cuse for not doing so, promising, however, to return the next 
evening. 

He bade his young friend " good-night," jumped into a 
fiacre, drove to bis quarters, hurried to his room, and with- 
out giving a thought to the amount of his ill-gotten gains,* 
poured them into the drawer of his toilet table and plunged 
into bed. 

The next morning before he had risen he heard a tap at 
the door, followed by the entrance of two gens-d^armes. 
They marched up to the side of his bed, while one of them, 
referring occasionally to a note-book, thus addressed him : — 

" Your name, Monsieur, is Dr. B . On the 10th of this 

month you slept at . On the nth you slept at La Cygne, 

in Lucerne. On the 13th you slept at the Hotel Secheron. 
On the 14th you left Geneva in the banquette of the diligence, 

which started at o'clock. You were last seen eating 

your breakfast with the other coach passengers at the road- 
side inn at Les Rouses, on the Jura ; but from that place we 
have lost sight of you. We know, however, that three days 
ago you entered this town without a passport, and we are at 
a loss to conceive how, in spite of the strictness of our police 



236 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

regulations, you succeeded in doing so. Luckily for you we 
know your antecedents. We know that you have been travel- 
ling with no political object, but simply for your own pleasure. 

We know that you dined with Madame and her son and 

daughter, in the Champs Elysees, two nights ago. We know 
that last night, in company with the son of your old friend, 
you visited first the opera, and then Frascati's, and that you 
won largely. Now we are authorized by our minister to say, 
that if you will deal unreservedly with us, and will tell us by 
what dexterous manoeuvre you managed to pass the barriers 
without a passport, you shall not only be supplied with a fresh 
one en regie, but shall be insured protection while you remain 
in this city. You will readily perceive that we make these 
inquiries without any idea of punishing you for your infraction 
of the law, but with the object of warding off a repetition of 
the same trick at the hands of less scrupulous gentry than 
yourself." 

Without compromising the conductor who had so generously 
befriended him, he then told them the whole truth, declaring 
his conviction that the audacity of the act was the chief cause 
of its success. 

The men, satisfied of the truth of his representation, then 
went on to say, " Now, sir, you have been open with us ; we 
in turn, will be open with you. You are in danger. Did you 
observe last night a German gentleman — a very stout one — 
with one or two decorations on his breast ? He had won less 
than you had, but he refused to continue play, and conse- 
quently after you had left he was shot dead as he was going 
down the stairs. We warn you return without fail to-night 
to Frascati's, and lose back every sous you have won, or your 
life is not worth four-and-twenty hours' purchase." 

In consequence of these alarming intimations, Dr. B 

told his young friend what had happened, and begging him to 
ceep out of harm's way, adjourned at night to Frascati's in no 
very enviable frame of mind. 

He played with studied, determined recklessness. No 
spendthrift ever wished more earnestly to win than he did to 



ANECDOTES OF THE FRENCH POLICE. 237 

lose ; but the more daring his ventures the more startling were 
his winnings. About the small hours of the morning, to his 
immeasurable satisfaction, the wheel of fortune turned against 
him ; still his losses bore no proportion to his gains. Morn- 
ing was breaking ; he was unwilling to stay, yet afraid to go. 
At last he screwed up his courage to the sticking-place and 
hurried out of the room ; but so full was his mind of the fate 
of the German baron the previous night, and of the warnings 
of the police, that instead of walking down the stairs he slid 
down the banisters, thinking by that undignified mode of de- 
scent he should present a more difficult mark for any murderer 
who might be lying in ambush for him. Whether it was 
thought prudent to reserve punishment for him to another 
night he knew not ; but, to his ineffable delight, the instant he 
alighted in the hall he was met by a tall, cocked-hatted func- 
tionary, in whom he recognized one of his bedroom visitors, 
who handed him into a cabriolet, which was at the door, and 
escorted him to his hotel without uttering a word. 

I am sorry that a story promising so well, should have no 

more sensational denouement ; but Dr. B told it us merely 

to prove the high state of efficiency of the Parisian police at 
that time. He felt so satisfied that he owed his life to their 
timely warning, and to the never-flagging vigilance with which 
they followed him about the streets, that he went to the head 
of the police-force and begged to be allowed to deposit in his 
hands a considerable sum of money in token of his sense of 
their attention. He was sternly and flatly refused, and re- 
minded that the entire organization of the force was for the 
protection of person and property ; and told, that if the system 
of rewards for the mere execution of duty was once permitted, 
the demoralization of the body would infallibly ensue. 

Wellington's Copenhagen. 

In the year, 1833 while living in Hampshire, no one showed 
my wife and myself more constant hospitality than the late 
Right Honorable Henry Pierrepont, the father of the present 
Lady Charles Wellesley. In his youth he had been the inti- 



238 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

mate associate of Lord Alvanley, Beau Brummell, and Henry, 
afterwards Lord de Roos. This little select clique was known 
as par excellence " the Dandies," who were not more distin- 
guished for their taste in dress than for their powers of wit 
and repartee. On one of our many delightful visits to Conholt, 
Mr. Pierrepont had but just returned from Strathfieldsaye as 
we arrived, He had been there to meet the judges, whom the 
Duke was accustomed to receive annually, previously to the 
opening of the assizes. After dinner, Mr. Pierrepont was 
asked by the Duke of Beaufort, who, with the Duchess, was 
in the house, if he had had an agreeable visit. " Particularly 
so," was the answer. " The Duke was in great force, and, 
for him, unusually communicative. The two judges and myself 
having arrived before the rest of the guests, who lived nearer 
Strathfieldsaye than we did, the Duke asked us if we were dis- 
posed to take a walk, see the paddocks, and get an appetite for 
dinner. We all three gladly assented to the proposition. As 
we were stumping along, talking of Assheton Smith's stud and 
hounds, one of the judges asked the Duke if we might see 
Copenhagen, his celebrated charger. ' God bless you,' re- 
plied the Duke, ' he has been long dead ; and half the fine 
ladies of my acquaintance have got bracelets or lockets made 
from his mane or tail.' ' Pray, Duke, apart from his being so 
closely associated with your Grace in the glories of Waterloo, 
was he a very remarkable — I mean, a particularly clever 
horse ? ' " 

" Duke. i Many faster horses, no doubt ; many handsomer : 
but for bottom and endurance never saw his fellow. I'll give 
you a proof of it. On the 17th, early in the day, I had a horse 
shot under me. Few know it ; but it was so. Before ten 
o'clock I got on Copenhagen's back. There was so much to 
do and to see to, that neither he nor I were still for many 
minutes together. I never drew a bit, and he never had a 
morsel in his mouth till eight P. M., when Fitzroy Somerset 
came to tell me dinner was ready in the little neighboring vil* 
lage — Waterloo. The poor beast I saw myself stabled and 
fed. I told my groom to give him no hay, but after a few go 



WELLINGTON'S COPENHAGEN 239 

downs of chilled water, as much corn and beans as he had a 
mind for, impressing on him the necessity of his sti swing them 
well over the manger first. Somerset and I dispatched a hast} 
meal ; and as soon as we had done so, I sent off Somerset on 
an errand. This I did, I confession purpose that I might get 
him out of the way, for I knew that if he had had the slightest 
inkling of what I was up to, he would have done his best to 
dissuade me from my purpose, and want to accompany me. 

" ' The fact was, I wanted to see Blucher, that I might learn 
from his own lips at what hour it was probable he would be 
able to join forces with us next day. Therefore, the moment 
Fitzroy's back was turned, I ordered Copenhagen to be re- 
saddled, and told my man to get his own horse and accompany 
me to Wavre, where I had reason to believe old " Forwards " 
was encamped. Now, Wavre being some twelve miles from 
Waterloo, I was not a little disgusted, on getting there, to find 
that the old fellow's tent was two miles still farther off. 

" ' However, I saw him, got the information I wanted from 
him, and made the best of my way homewards. Bad, how- 
ever, was the best ; for by Jove, it was so dark that I fell into 
a deepish dyke by the roadside ; and if it had not been for 
my orderly's assistance, I doubt if I should ever have got out. 
Thank God, there was no harm done, either to horse or man ! 

" * Well, on reaching headquarters, and thinking how bravely 
my old horse had carried me all day, I could not help going up 
to his head to tell him so by a few caresses. But, hang me, if, 
when I was giving him a slap of approbation on his hind- 
quarters, he did not fling out one of his hind legs with as much 
vigor as if he had been in stable for a couple of days ! Re- 
member, gentlemen, he had been out with me on his back, for 
upwards of ten hours, and had carried me eight-and-twenty 
miles besides. I call that bottom ! ey ? ' " 

In this simple and unpretending manner did the great man 
vaunt the merits of his horse, and forget altogether the in- 
finitely greater fatigue (for his was mental as well as bodily) 
which he had himself undergone. 



240 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

Wellington and the Bagman. 

For full a quarter of an hour, during one of the greatest 
crises of the battle of Waterloo, when the great Duke had work 
enough on his hands to have employed a staff of double the 
dimensions of that allotted to him ; and when he had in addi- 
tion to his regular aides-de-camp, volunteer ones, in the per- 
sons of the then Duke of Richmond, Lord William Lennox (a 
youth not sixteen), and Lord Bathurst (then Lord Apsley), all 
flying about the field for him with messages oral or written, he 
found himself alone — and alone at the very moment that he 
most needed help. While traversing the horizon with his tel- 
escope, he had descried the commencement of a movement, on 
the part of Sir James Kempt's brigade, which he foresaw, if 
not promptly countermanded, would be likely to operate fatally 
on the successful issue of the battle. He had no one at his 
elbow by whom he could make the desired communication with 
the gallant brigadier. In this trying dilemma he turned him- 
self round in his saddle and beheld, some hundred yards be- 
hind him, a single horseman, so quaintly attired as almost to 
excite a smile on his countenance. He wore a green cut-away 
coat (known in those days as a duck-hunter), drab vest, drab 
breeches, and mahogany-tinted top-boots. He bestrode a black 
short-jointed Flemish cob. He carried an English hunting- 
whip in his hand ; and had on his head a civilian's hat, with a 
colonel's feather stuck in it. 

The instant the Duke caught sight of him he beckoned him 
to him, and in his curt, pithy manner asked him who he was ? 
what he was there for ? how he had passed the lines ? etc., 
etc. His answer was concise and direct enough. But I prefer 
to tell it as it was told to me by one who, in 1819, four years 
after the battle, had heard all the particulars from the lips of 
both parties concerned. 

He told the Duke that he was a commercial gentleman — in 
other words, a bagman — travelling for a great wholesale Bir- 
mingham button manufactory ; that he had been engaged in 
showing " specimens " to a retail house in Brussels, when his 



WELLINGTON AND THE BAGMAN 24 1 

ears were assailed by the reverberation of heavy ordnance, and 
having had an intense desire all his life to see a battle, he 
begged eave to suspend his negotiation, abruptly left the shop, 
rushed to a horse- jobber, hired from him the best animal he 
could find, up to his weight, and made the best of his way to 
the scene of action. On coming at a turn of the road on a par- 
ticular wood, he found two regiments, with piled arms, bivou- 
acking. 1 On attempting to pass, he was challenged by one of 
the sentries, and roughly ordered to "be off." While the bag- 
man was trying to propitiate him, and other soldiers, looking 
on, were disputing the propriety of yielding to his solicitation, 
one of the officers, who heard the altercation, went up and 
asked what was the matter. The stranger begged that he 
might be allowed to explain his position ; and in doing so, 
pleaded so strenuously, yet respectfully, for leave "to see the 
fun," that the officer in question determined, if practicable, to 
grant his request. Before doing so, however, he warned him 
of the probable risk to his own person. " Oh," said he, " I will 
brave the risks, if only I may gratify my curiosity." Turning 
to a corporal who was standing near him, he asked him " what 
were his orders." " Nothing under a colonel's feather to pass, 
captain." " Well," said the good-natured officer, " we will soon 
settle that matter. Send out a man or two, and let them search 
among the bodies of the dead for a colonel's feather." In a 
few minutes one was found, brought, and inserted into our 
Birmingham friend's hat ; and the sanction he craved was 
granted. 

The bagman, carefully noting the lie of the ground, and 
guided by his natural intelligence, pushed on towards the only 
elevated spot he could perceive. As he beheld the clouds of 

1 I had the honor of telling this story to the late Lord Raglan (when Lord Fitz- 
roy Somerset). He had never heard it, and, at first, could hardly believe it, as he 
had never heard it ; but afterwards, from inquiries he made, and from the person's 
name which I gave him as my authority, he said " he had no doubt it was true." On 
my expressing to his lordship that I could not fancy, when troops were so much 
needed, that there could have been two regiments near at hand, and yet not called 
into play, he said, " Oh, yes ; there were two regiments, and one was the 54th, which 
formed part of the force kept in reserve for the protection of the road to Brussels, 
and they never wen engaged on ♦*»<» *ield." 



242 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

smoke and the lurid sky, and sniffed the scent of powder and 
of carnage as he got nearer and nearer, and heard the clash of 
steel and the stunning roar of artillery, he became wildly ex- 
cited, and " eager for the fray," put spurs to his horse and 
galloped like a madman on and on, till suddenly he saw be- 
fore him, on the summit of the hillock for which he was mak- 
ing, a figure, the very sight of which sobered his impetuosity, 
caused him instinctively to draw in his bridle-rein, take breath, 
and halt, as if petrified, in his course. The figure that met his 
eyes was seated on horseback rigid as a statue ! The cocked- 
hat, the military cloak, with its short cape, drooping in long 
folds from his shoulders, the arms raised and extended, the 
hands holding in their grip a field-telescope, with which an 
eagle-glance was busily scanning the fiery hosts below and 
beyond, told him he was within ear-shot of the foremost man 
in Europe. As he took out from his coat-pocket his handker- 
chief, and nervously wiped his heated brow, an indefinable 
sense of awe set his pulses throbbing. He felt guilty. He 
felt a trespasser. He felt he was where he had no right to 
be. He was thinking whether he had not better beat a re- 
treat, and retire to some spot where he would be screened 
from observation, when the object of his dread turned round 
and asked him his business there. The Duke was pleased 
with his answers, and determined to turn his metal and sense 
to good account. 

" You are a funny chap ! Why, you ought to have been a 
soldier ! Would you like to serve your country, if I gave you 
the opportunity ? " 

" Yes, my lord." 

" Would you take a message of importance for me, if I sent 
y r ou with one ? " 

Touching his hat in the approved military fashion — "If I 
were trusted by you, my lord, I should think it the proudest 
day of my life." 

The Duke, who at that time was no duke, but Lord Welling- 
ton, put into the man's hand his field-glass, and directed him 
where to look. " Those troops you see yonder are the Ennis- 



WELLINGTON AND THE BAGMAN 243 

fcillens ; those beyond are the Royals. There, you see those 
gray horses, they are the Scots Greys. They are commanded 
by Lord Edward Somerset. There, again, is the 42d. Be- 
tween (pointing to certain spots) such-and-such a regiment lies 
Sir James Kempt's brigade, the 28th, the 32d, the 79th High- 
landers, and the 95th Rifles. I have no materials for writing 1 
by me, so mind you are very accurate in delivering my mes- 
sage." He then, having intrusted to him a brief, emphatic 
order (which he made him repeat, that there might be no mis- 
take), he ended the interview with these words : " Tell him, 
by G — , if he perseveres in carrying out what he has begun to 
do, the game will be all up with us ! " 

" I dare say you have often joined in a fox-hunt in Eng- 
land ? " 

" Often, my lord." 

" Well, in the hunting-field you don't think much of a man 
who is always ' skirting.' But I sha'n't think much of you in 
the battle-field, at least as my aide-de-camp, if you do not skirt. 
Your business is to execute my orders with as little risk to 
yourself as may be ; because, if you put yourself in danger, 
you imperil the safe delivery of my message, and so jeopardize 
the success of the fight. Mind, then, don't go near the smoke ; 
but pound away on that nag of yours until you reach the rear 
oi Kempt's troops. Then tell the first man you can get speech 
vith that you come from me, and must be taken to the general, 
and it will be all right." 

The orders were barely delivered before the stranger was off 
at the top of his horse's speed to execute them. The Duke 
watched his progress with marked interest and approval for 
some little time ; when, presently, his approbation gave way to 
apprehension, and apprehension to indignation, as he observed 
his messenger doing the very thing he had specially warned 
him against — namely, dash through the very thick of the smoke 

1 I heard the Duke say once that he used to hang from one of the button-holes of 
his waistcoat a number of slips of parchment on which he wrote his orders, in size 
\nd shape something resembling the parchment labels used for travelling in these rail- 
way days ; but they were all by that time exhausted by the multiplicity of message* 
he had had to send out. 



244 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

with all the fearlessness of an old cavalry officer. WliiA the 
Duke was riding up and down, uneasily ruminating on the 
chances of his message ever reaching its destination, he was 
joined, first, by Sir Alexander Gordon ; then by Sir Augustus 
Frazer ; and then by Sir Horace Seymour, bearing a message 
from Lord Anglesey. As soon as they had all come up, within 
a minute or two of each other, the Duke said, "I have been 
wanting one of you gentlemen sadly. In your absence I have 
been so hard pressed for an aide-de-camp, that I have had to 
appoint a new one in the person of a Brummagem bagman.' 
He then told them of the mission on which he had sent him. 
Each proffered his services. The Duke declined them. " Per- 
haps I may want one of you," said he ; "we'll wait a few min- 
utes. I'm disposed to have faith in Brummagem. He's no 
fool ! " He then dismounted from his horse, passed his horse's 
bridle into Seymour's hand, took from his dispatch-box, which 
was on the ground, the " Sun " newspaper, opened it to its. full 
extent, spread it over his face, leaned his head on a sack of 
forage, and in another instant was asleep. 1 All three aides- 
de-camp stood silent by. At the expiration of five or six min- 
utes' interval, he sprang up on his feet, opened his field-glass, 
and cried out, in a tone of unusual vivacity, " By Jove ! It 
is all right. Kempt has changed his tactics. He has got my 
message ; for he is doing precisely as I directed him. Well 
done, Buttons ! " 

The Duke, one evening after dinner, told my informant that 
he considered the counteraction of Kempt's original movement 
almost the pivot on which the fortunes of the battle turned ; 
and certainly next in importance to the closing of the gates of 
Hougoumont by Sir John McDonnell, Captain Wyndham, 
Ensigns Gooch and Harvey ; and last, not least, Sergeant 
Graham of the Coldstreams. Indeed, so indebted did the 
Duke feel to the hero of our tale for the intelligence and in- 
trepidity he had displayed, that the instant the Prussians had 

1 It is a notable coincidence that both Napoleon and Wellington had the same 
enviable faculty of commanding sleep at will, and of being refreshed by a very lew 
minutes' s] imber. 



WELLINGTON NOT SURPRISED. 245 

zome up, And he had ordered our harassed troops, who had 
sustained the chief brunt of the French attack, to lie down 
and rest, and leave the pursuit to the last comers, he had him 
cried, first on the field, then in the village of Waterloo, then 
at Brussels, and last of all, at Paris — but to no purpose. 

For many years the Duke never could gain tidings of him, 
until one day, at dinner at his own table, happening to men- 
tion the circumstances, and express his regret at never having 
been able to learn anything of him since the event, one of his 
guests told him that he knew the man, and had heard him 
allude to the part he had played, very cursorily, and without 
boastfulness. The Duke instantly took down the man's ad- 
dress, wrote to him, and within a week obtained for him a 
commissionership of Customs in the west of England, in rec- 
ognition of his services. 

Wellington not surprised. 

After dinner, the conversation turned on the vexed question, 
as to whether the Duke of Wellington had been taken by sur- 
prise at Waterloo, or not. After a lively and rather warm dis- 
cussion, antagonistic opinions being advanced on each side 
with equal confidence, I turned round to Sir Henry Webster, 
who was coolly peeling an orange, and taking no part in the 
controversy, and asked him if he had not been at Waterloo. 
" Ah," said he, smiling, and raising his voice at the same time, 
" I have been amused at the speculations of some of you gen- 
tlemen, when here sits one who knows as much about the facts 
which you have been arguing as any man in the world. I beg 
distinctly to declare, that the Duke of Wellington was not 
taken by surprise. The real state of the case was this : the 
Duke knew perfectly well that the possession of Brussels 
would be of primary importance to Napoleon, on account of 
the moral, military, and political advantages to be gained from 
it. He knew, therefore, that Napoleon wouM make for it. 
The Duke's game was to anticipate him, and make Brussels 
his own head-quarters. He knew, also, that it was more than 
likely that Napoleon, by forced marches, would try to engage 



246 JULIAN CHARLL S" YOUNG, 

with the British forces before their strength had been in- 
creased by the addition of more of the allied troops. On the 
15th, Napoleon had marched on Charleroi, and, at dawn, had 
unexpectedly fallen on the Prussians, and compelled them to 
fall back. Intelligence of the advance of the French was dis- 
patched at once to the Duke. At three o'clock, while the 
Duke was eating an early dinner, the Prince of Orange gal- 
loped up to his hotel to tell him that the French were advanc- 
ing by the valley of the Sambre on Brussels. He received 
the intelligence with his usual calmness. At five o'clock he 
had matured his plan of operations, and had his orders to the 
chief commanding officers ready, written on cards, intending 
them to be distributed, after supper, at the Duchess of Rich- 
mond's ball. 

" Now, you may not perhaps know, gentlemen, that I was 
the Prince of Orange's aide-de-camp. The Prince had him- 
self been actively engaged that day in helping the Prince of 
S axe-Weimar (whose brigade of Netherlanders had been 
driven in on Quatre Bras) to defend the farm-house there. 
He had then ridden on to Brussels to see the Duke, and to 
attend the ball ; but, before doing so, he told me to remain 
where I was (whether it was at the farm of Quatre Bras, or 
somewhere near, I forget) and bring him certain dispatches 
which he expected, the instant they arrived. At ten o'clock 

, the minister, came to me, telling me that the advanced 

guard of the Prussians had been driven in at Ligny ; and or- 
dering me, without a moment's delay, to convey the dispatch 
he put into my hand to the Prince of Orange. 'A horse 
ready-saddled awaits you at the door,' he said, ' and another 
has been sent on, half an hour ago, to a half-way house, to 
help you on the faster. Gallop every yard ! You will find 
youi chief at the Duchess of Richmond's ball. Stand on no 
ceremony ; but insist on seeing the Prince at once.' I was in 
my saddle without a second's delay ; and, thanks to a fine 
moon and two capital horses, had covered the ten miles I had 
to go within the hour ! The Place at Brussels was all ablaze 
with light ; and such was the crowd of carriages, that I could 



WELLINGTON NOT SURPRISED. 247 

not well make way through them on horseback ; so I aban- 
doned my steed to the first man I could get hold of, and made 
my way to the porter's lodge. On my telling the Suisse I had 
dispatches of moment for the Prince, he civilly asked me if I 
would wait five minutes ; 'for/ said he, 'the Duchess has just 
given orders for the band to go up-stairs, and the party are now 
about to rise. If you were to burst in suddenly, it might alarm 
the ladies.' On that consideration I consented to wait. I 
peeped in between the folding doors and saw the Duchess of 
Richmond taking the Prince of Orange's arm, and Lady Char 
lotte Greville the Duke's, on their way to the ball-room. The 
moment they reached the foot of the stairs, I hastened to the 
Prince's side and gave him the dispatch. Without looking at 
it, he handed it behind him to the Duke, who quietly deposited 
it in his coat-pocket. The Prince made me a sign to remain 
in the hall. I did so. All the company passed by me, but I 
hid myself in a recess from observation for fear of being asked 
awkward questions. As soon as the last couple had mounted 
the premiere etage, the Duke of Wellington descended, and 
espying me beckoned me to him, and said, in a low voice, 
* Webster ! Four horses instantly to the Prince of Orange's 
carriage for Waterloo ! ' " 

The very day after hearing this account, I went to lunch 
with Mr. and the late Lady Jane Peel, who, as the Duchess of 
Richmond's daughter, I knew to have been present ; and I 
asked her if she could recall distinctly the circumstances of 
that historic night. "Do you think," she asked, "that any 
one who was there ever could forget the events of that night ? 
Well I remember what Sir Henry Webster has told you — 
namely, the rising from that supper-table, and all that followed 
rmmediately after it. I know I was in a state of wild delight 
— the scene itself was so stirring, and the company so brilliant. 
I recollect, on reaching the ball-room after supper, I was scan- 
ning over my tablets, which were filled from top to bottom 
with the names of the partners to whom I was engaged ; when, 
on raising my eyes, I became aware of a great preponderance 
of ladies in the room. White muslins and tarlatans abounded 1 



248 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

but the gallant uniforms had sensibly diminished. The enigma 
was soon solved. Without fuss or parade, or tender adieux, 
the officers, anxious not to alarm the ladies, had quietly stolen 
out ; and before they had time to guess the nature of the news 
which had robbed them of their partners, and changed the 
festive aspect of the scene, they found themselves, instead of 
asking questions, holding their breath, while the musicians 
ceased to play ; for the dub-a-dub of the drum, and the rolling 
of artillery-wagons, and the blast of the bugle, and the tramp 
of large masses of infantry, and the neighing of cavalry horses, 
told them how near they were to the seat of war, and how im- 
minently a great battle was impending." 

"Ah ! then and there »was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs, 
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could risel " 

The Three Parishioners. 

The following sketch of three old " lean and slippered pan- 
taloons," parishioners of mine, is not in the least exaggerated. 
The conversation, which I am about to describe as having 
taken place between one of them and myself, is given verba- 
tim. I wrote it down instantly, in Charles Mathews's pres- 
ence, and at his request. It requires not only imitation, but 
ventriloquism, to give a just idea of the ludicrous degrees of 
feebleness of voice displayed in the " childish treble " of the 
youngest, and his mimicry of the still weaker voice of the 
eldest. 

James Baker was a moping old malcontent — sour, selfish, 
and stricken in years. I think he was seventy-eight. His 
outer man was distinguished by a dirty and dilapidated smock- 
frock, a battered straw hat, and brown gaiters, " a world toe 
wide for his shrunk shanks." 

Solomon Cox was eighty-three, nearly bent double by in- 



THE THREE PARISHIONERS. 249 

firmity and age, and tottered and trembled as he walked : he 
leaned heavily on his crab stick, wore a hideous fur cap of 
Norwegian extraction, and looked every inch what he really 
was, the very incarnation of <; hatred, malice, and all unchari- 
tableness." 

Thomas Nash was but seventy-five, and was looked down 
upon by his two veteran companions ; not more on the score 
of his comparative youth, than of his manners, which they 
deemed volatile and puerile. He was blessed by nature with 
a genial and mercurial temperament. He was the cricket on 
their hearth. It was impossible to see him, with his quaint 
three-cornered Uncle Toby hat, his snuff -brown coat, with its 
broad skirts and plated buttons, each larger than a crown- 
piece, without discerning in these vanities the expiring embers 
of a slowly-smouldering dandyism. His step had a rickety 
jauntiness about it, ill-suited to a man with one foot in the 
grave ; and in his eye there lurked a latent waggery, which 
told of buoyancy of spirit " in the old dog yet." 

These three lived together on the outskirts of a breezy spot 
called Hay-down, in a wretched mud-wall hut, allotted to them 
by " the parish." Reader, if you have ever known in the circle 
of your miscellaneous acquaintance three sisters, one of whom 
has been beautiful, another comely, and the third positively 
-^9in, but who, classed together, have been spoken of as "the 

three beautiful Misses ," you will be able to understand 

how two members of this antiquated trio, crooning over their 
scanty bit of fuel, and mumbling and moaning over their hard 
lot, and looking as if they had just stepped out of one of 
Teniers' pictures, owed the little interest they inspired in their 
squire or minister, rather to their association with their amia- 
ble and attractive chum, than to any attraction of their own. 
The following dialogue between Thomas Nash and myself is 
characteristic. 

J. C. Y. " Well, Thomas, how d'ye find yourself to-day ? " 

Nash. " Very well, I thank your reverence. A fine day it 
fb for drying the clots." (In that part of the world they dr) 
the droppings from cows and use them as firing.) 



250 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

J. C. Y. " How is Baker?" 

Nash. " Much of a muchness, please your reverence ; a 
grumbling in coorse. He's always at that fun. One time 'tis 
bowl's, 1 then 'tis the rheumatics, and now, he says, 'tis the 
prelatics (paralysis) or summut. But he's one as 'ul! always 
have summut the matter. He'd be miserable, if he had not ! " 

J. C. Y. " And is Solomon Cox all right ? " 

(His answer reminded me of Dogberry to Leonato in " Much 
Ado about Nothing." " Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little 
off the matter : an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt 
as, God help, I would desire they were ; but, in faith, honest 
as the skin between his brows.") 

Nash. " Lor' bless you, sir, he's but an old crittur at the 
best He's a'most weared out." 

J. C. Y. " Well, well, no wonder. Think of his years ! " 

Nash. " Lor', sir, 'taint age as does it ; 'tis envy ! I'll tell 
you summut, master. You mun know, we three old coves 
have a lug 2 o' ground atween us ; and I've gotten a main-few 8 
'taters, and a sight o' nice young peas besides ; and he've got 
none. He were fretting about this amazing t'other day, saying 
it warn't fair, and one thing or another, for that I could get 
about a sight better nor he ; that he'd got no 'nure 4 for his'n ; 
and that I was always a-scraping and scraping every mossel o' 
cow-dung I could clap my eyes on : so he'd no chance. Well, 
I rather pitied the old gennelman ; so I says, says I, ' I'll tell 
you what it is, Master Solomon, — you wants pre-se-verance. 
Now, I don't want to take no re vantage 5 on you ; so I'll tell 
you what I'll do : — I'll gie you a day on't ; I'll show you my 
beat ; I'll rig you out wi' my dung-bag and scraper ; and if 
that ain't fair I don't know what is ! ' Well, sir, I put him in 
the way o' what I calls my ' preserves,' and started him hand- 
sum. We seed nothing on him till tea-time ; and as soon as 
he cum in I slapped him on the back, and said, cheery-like, 

1 Bowels. 

* A lug is a quarter of an acre. 

3 "A main-few" in Hants, Wilts, and many other counties, signifies "a good 
many. 

4 Manure * Advantage. 



CHARLES MA THE PVS. 2 5 I 

'Well, mate, what sport? — what sport, I say?' Blessed ii 
the old gennelman, instead o' saying summut pleasant, did not 
sink down in his chair, seem faint-like, and then fall to a-cry- 
ing, like a good 'un. When I could get him to speak at last, 
he broke out in these werry words : ' Arter the 'ansum man- 
ner in which you've cum forward, Thomas Nash, I won't say 
nothing. But this I must say, if I were to die for it next min- 
ute, you've that scoured the country up and down, there ain't 
nothing worth a rush to be got. Here have I been a matter of 
five hours a-beating and a-beating about, and I've never seed 
but one poor clot, and I would not have he ; there were no 
walley 1 in it.' " 

Charles Mathews, senior, when this dilaogue took place, 
was indoors at the time ; and when I went in and told him of 
it, he roared with laughter. I never saw him afterwards that 
he did not make me repeat it — though I think I can chronicle 
still droller things of him. 

Charles Mathews. • 

" E'en from my boyhood up " I knew old Charles Mathews, 
the comedian, intimately. The present generation has too 
often heard of him, and therefore naturally thinks of him as a 
great mimic. I claim for him higher pretensions — namely, 
that of being the most wonderful imitator of his age. 

A man may be the most amusing " mimic " that ever " set 
the table in a roar," and yet be gifted with no great powers of 
intellect. The mind has very little to do with the matter ; for 
the mimic's success depends principally on liveliness of per- 
ception, and the possession of certain physical and corporeal 
qualifications, neither rare in their manifestations, nor indica- 
tive of any mental superiority in their possessor. 

The chief requisites in the mimic are quickness of observa- 
tion, sensibility of ear, flexibility of voice, mobility of feature, 
and suppleness of muscle. His sphere is a very limited one ; 
for it is generally confined to the mere adventitious accidents 
ot singularity of elocution or oddity of demeanor. The menta! 

1 Value. 



252 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

and the moral of the inner man are beyond his province. 
That Mathews had no rival as a mimic I am not prepared to 
assert ; for, in " taking off " his brethren of the sock and bus- 
kin, I think Frederick Yates was. his superior ; but as an imi- 
tator he wa« unapproachable. 

The old Duke of Richmond, the grandfather of the present, 
was very partial to Mathews, and so thoroughly appreciated 
this specialite of his, that during his Lord- Lieutenancy of Ire- 
land, whenever he had him to dinner and wished to treat his 
guests to a specimen of his talent, as soon as the cloth was 
removed, he would propose his health, not in his own name, 
but now as Lord Erskine, now as Lord Ellenborough — at one 
time as Sheridan, at another as Curran ; and under whichever 
metamorphosis it might be, he would make a speech so closely 
after the manner of each as to electrify his hearers. It was 
not so much the alacrity with which he would spring to his 
feet and assume the countenance, voice, and gesticulation of 
the person he was expected to impersonate, as the individu- 
ality of thought and style of speech which reminded his audi-, 
ence of Erskine and Ellenborough, and the felicity of language 
and profusion of trope and metaphor, which made them fancy 
they were listening to the voice of Sheridan or Curran. 

In Lady Blessington's " Conversations with Byron," she 
mentions that Walter Scott once asked Byron if he had ever 
heard Mathews imitate Curran ; and, on his regretting that he 
never had Scott added : " It was not an imitation, it was a 
continuation of the man." So highly, too, did Coleridge es- 
timate his powers, that on somebody, in his presence, calling 
him a mere mimic, he said, " You call him a mimic : I define 
him as a comic poet acting his own poems." 

He certainly was unique in his way, and full of incongruities. 
I never knew any man so alive to the eccentricities of others, 
who was so dead to his own. I never knew a man who made 
the world laugh so much, who laughed so seldom himself. I 
never knew a man who, when in society, could make the dullest 
merry, so melancholy out of it. On the other hand, I never 
knew a man so prompt to resent calumnious imputations on 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 253 

others, or so ready to forgive those who had done himself 
wrong. In his imitation of others, he was never actuated by 
malevolence ; but no man was more hasty in attributing unami- 
able motives to any who made M771 the subject of mimicry. 
He was very fond of imitating Dignum the singer, and used 
to tell how, when he took him off to his face, he would say, 
" Oh, Mathews ! you are a wonderful person ; but it is wicked, 
it really is, to mock natur — you should not do it, 'pon my 
life." And yet he himself was furious with Yates for taking 
the like liberty with him. 

The intrinsic woi th of his character, the purity of his life, 
his liberality to the necessitous, his simplicty, his untarnished 
integrity, his love for his wife and son, his fidelity to his friends, 
his loyalty to his patrons, his chivalrous defense of those he 
thought unjustly defamed, could not fail to win for him the 
thorough respect of all who knew him. On the other hand, 
genius and gentleman as he was, his nervous whimsicality, his 
irritability about trifles, his antipathies to particular people, 
places, and objects, rendered him justly vulnerable to ridicule 
and censure. I have seen him scratch his head, and grind his 
teeth, and assume a look of anguish, when a haunch of venison 
has been carved unskillfully in his presence. I have seen him, 
though in high feather and high talk when in a sunny chamber, 
if transferred to a badly-lighted room, withdraw into a corner 
and sit by himself in moody silence. He was strangely impres- 
sionable by externals. I have known him refuse permission to 
a royal Duke to see over his picture-gallery on Highgate Hill, 
because the day of his call was cloudy. He was such a pas- 
sionate lover of sunshine, that I have seen him "put out," fcr 
a whole day by the lady of a house at which he was calling 
pulling down the Venetian blinds. " There are not many days 
in the year," he would say, " when the sun shines at all in this 
country ; and when he is disposed to be kindly and to pay us 
a visit, down goes every blind in his face, to show him, I sup- 
pose, how little we value his presence." Whenever he went out 
to dinner, in the good old days when moderator and sinumbra 
lap os were unknown, and wax-candles were in fashion, he was 



254 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

wont to carry in his breast-pocket a pair of small silver snuf- 
fers, so that, when the wicks were long and dull, he might be 
able to snuff them, and thus brighten up the gloom that was 
gathering round the table. I have known him, without the 
slightest cause, appropriate remarks to himself which were in 
tended for others, and fret his heart-strings over imaginary 
wrongs for hours. I have known him frenzied with rage, on 
discovering that a tidy housemaid had picked up from the floor 
of his bedroom a dirty pair of stockings which he had left 
there " as a memorandum," on the same principle on which 
people tie knots in their hankerchiefs. And yet, with all these 
unhappy infirmities, I never knew a man more formed to in- 
spire, and who succeeded more in inspiring personal affection, 
or who, though exposed to many temptations, was so unsoiled 
by them. 

I have already implied, if I have not asserted, that he was 
liable to alternate fits of elation and depression. At one time 
he was so alarmed about himself, that he begged his razors 
might be always kept by his man, and never left in his room, 
lest, under some malign impulse, he might destroy himself. 
When the black cloud was on his spirit, he was taciturn ; and 
if addressed, laconic and sour in his replies. At such times 
he would speak as if he were a fatalist ; he would vow that 
nothing ever went right with him ; that he was the most ill- 
starred of men ; and then, in confirmation of his assertion, 
would say — " I never, in my life, put on a new hat, that it did 
not rain and ruin it. I never went out in a shabby coat because 
it was raining, and thought all, who had the choice, would keep 
indoors, that the sun did not burst forth in its strength, and 
bring out with it all the butterflies of fashion whom I knew, or 
who knew me. I never consented to accept a part I hated, 
out of kindness to an author, that I did not get hissed by the 
public and cut by the writer. I could not take a drive of a few 
minutes with Terry, without being overturned, and having my 
hip-bone broke, though my friend got off unharmed. I could 
not make a covenant with Arnold, which I thought was to 
make my fortune, without making his instead. In an incred- 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 2$$ 

ible space of time (I think thirteen months) I earned for him 
twenty thousand pounds, and for myself one. I am persuaded, 
if I were to set up as a baker, every one in my neighborhood 
would leave off eating bread ! " 

I mentioned how easily his equanimity was disturbed by 
trifles, such as bad carving, ill-lighted rooms, etc. The same 
feeling extended to other things. If he were paying a call, for 
the first time, on a new acquaintance, and saw a picture hang- 
ing out of the perpendicular,, he would spring up to put it 
straight ; if a lady, in her dress, showed a deficient sense of 
harmony in color, it irritated him greatly, etc., etc. The fol- 
lowing anecdote will further illustrate his morbid sensibility 
to things which most people would deem insignificant. 

He had an appointment with a solicitor. They were to meet 
at a particular hour at a small inn in the city, where they might 
hope to be quiet and undisturbed. Mathews arrived at the 
trysting-place a few minutes too soon. On entering the coffee- 
room, he found its sole tenant a commercial gentleman ear- 
nestly engaged on a round of boiled beef. Mathews sat him- 
self down by the fire, and took up a newspaper, meaning to 
wile away the time till his friend arrived. Occasionally he 
glanced from the paper to the beef, and from the beef to the 
man, till he began to fidget and look about from the top of the 
right-hand page to the bottom of the left in a querulous man- 
ner Then he turned the paper inside out, and, pretending to 
stop from reading, addressed the gentleman in a tone of ill- 
disguised indignation, and with a ghastly smile — "I beg your 
pardon, sir, but I don't think you are aware that you have no 
mustard." The person thus addressed looked up at him with 
evident surprise, mentally resenting his gratuitous interference 
with his tastes, and coldly bowed. Mathews resumed his 
paper, and, curious to see if his well-meant hint would be 
acted on, furtively looked round the edge of his paper, and 
finding the plate to be still void of mustard, concluded the 
man was deaf. So, raising his voice to a higher key, and ac 
costing him with sarcastic acerbity, he bawled out, with syllabic 
precision — " Are — you — a- ware — sir — that — you — have 



256 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

— been — eat-ing — boiled — beef — with-out — mus-tard ? " 
Again a stiff bow and no reply. Once more Mathews affected 
to read, while he was really " nursing his wrath to keep 1/ 
warm." At last, seeing the man's obstinate violation of con- 
ventionality and good taste, he jumped up, and in the most 
arbitary and defiant manner, snatched the mustard-pot out ot 
the cruet-stand, banged it on the table, under the defaulter's 
nose, and shouted out : " Confound it, sir, you shall take 
mustard ! " He then slapped his hat on his head, and ordered 
the waiter to show him into a private room, vowing that he had 
never before been under the roof with such a savage ; and 
that he had been made quite sick by the revolting sight which 
he had seen in the coffee-room. ~ 

Another of the plagues by which he deemed himself to be 
peculiarly beset, was the pestering offers of attention, from 
mercenary motives, of urchins in the streets. 

I met him one day in Regent Street, mounted on his pretty 
milk-white pony. Although I was a favorite, I saw that my 
stopping him was not altogether acceptable. It was soon 
explained. The young Arabs of the street were round him, 
and at each side of his bridle, with their " Please, want your 
'orse 'olded ; " and, with the sort of expression on his face, 
which one would have expected, perhaps, to see, if he had 
been on the plains of Egypt, with a swarm of Bedouins swoop- 
ing down upon him, he shook himself off from me, with the 
and words, " The plague's begun," uttered in a tone of de- 
spair, galloped off as fast as intervening cabs and carriages 
would allow him. 

During the entire period of his stay with us he was delight- 
ful : always ready to fall in with our quiet and monotonous 
mode of life, and appearing pleased with everything and every- 
body with whom he was thrown in contact. At the termination 
of his night's performance at Andover, I was made aware of 
one of his whims, of which I had, till then, been quite uncon- 
scious I mean his singular and inexplicable aversion to the 
touch of money. ' A certain man, who, for prudential reasons, 
I will not name, always travelled with him, as his secretary and 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 2$J 

ch>ck-taker. He received all the money taken at the doors. 
On leaving the Town Hall with Mathews, Tasked him if he 
were content with the receipts. " Oh," said he, " I don t 

know what they are : I leave it all to B . I am quite at his 

mercy. I never know what really is taken at the doors. I 
only know what I receive. I hope and believe B is hon- 
est : but, even if he is not, I could not wrangle about money. 
I do so hate the very touch of it." " What ! " I exclaimed, 
with genuine incredulity, " hate money ! " "I did not say I 
hated money, but that I hated the touch of money — I mean 
coin. It makes my skin goosey." 

One more of his oddities I must mention. He used often 
to declare, that he never could understand why it was that, 
when other people so frequently had cause to complain that 
they could not find things they lost, he never could lose any- 
thing he wished to get rid of. I must plead guilty to having 
twice ministered, with malice prepense, to this superstition of 
his. 

On leaving any house where I may have been staying, I 
have a confirmed habit of looking into every drawer, wash- 
stand, table, etc., so as to insure myself against leaving any- 
thing behind me. Mathews once left me at a country inn, 
where we had been together. When I was about to take my 
departure, with my usual precaution, I took care to ransack 
every possible and impossible nook or cranny, behind which 
any article of mine might have fallen ; and, in doing so, ob- 
served, secreted behind a huge old mahogany dining-table, 
with deep flaps, which was placed against the wall of our 
sitting-room, a dress shoe, so dapper in shape, and so diminu- 
tive in size, that I had no difficulty in recognizing it as one of 
my friend's. Rejoiced at the opportunity of having a bit of 
fun, I inclosed it in a brown paper parcel, and dispatched it 
after him. Instead of thanking me for my trouble, he wrote 
to me, and told me that I was "his evil genius ; that, having 
worn out the companion pump, which was that of the foot of 
his lame leg, the one I had forwarded to him was of no earthly 
use to him ; that in the faint hope of getting rid of it, he had 



258 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

placed it where I had found it ; and that in consequence of 
my inquisitive and officious disposition, he had been com- 
pelled to pay for the recovery of this useless article as much 
as would have purchased an entirely new pair." 

About a month after he had left us, at Amport, I happened 
to go to my wardrobe in search of an old pair of trowsers 
which I reserved for gardening purposes. As I was putting 
them on, I felt that there was something in them. My first 
impression was, that, when I had last worn them, I had left 
my purse in them. But, on inserting my hand into the pocket, 
I drew out an oddly-shaped object, neatly wrapped up in Bath 
note paper, with these words inscribed on the outside, in the 
quaint but vigorous handwriting I knew so well, " To be lost, 
if possible." On opening the little packet, I found inside it a 
circular nail-brush, worn to the bone. It would seem that, on 
looking over the articles in my wardrobe, he thought the 
trowsers he had selected were too shabby for me ever to put 
on again, and therefore chose them for a hiding-place. But 
he was deceived. I made up another neat parcel for him, and 
directed it to his house in London. Unfortunately he was on 
a professional tour in the provinces, where it followed him ; 
till by the time it reached him, the " carriage" had amounted 
to some shillings. I was not long in receiving a letter of 
ironical thanks "for my kind and dear attention." I was 
penitent for having put him to such expense, and I confessed 
my sin to him. 

Many years after,' I was telling his son Charles of these 
amusing incidents, when he said, " I can cap your story." He 
then told me, that once he and his father had an engagement 
with one of the East India Directors at the India Office. As 
they were approaching Blackfriar's Bridge, the father said to 
the son, " We must stop a minute at the first draper's shop we 
come to, as I want to buy myself a new pair of gloves ; for 1 
have mislaid the fellow to the one I have on my right hand." 
As soon as he had effected his purchase, they proceeded on 
their way ; and, on reaching the bridge, the son observed his 
father looking before him and behind him, as if, having some 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 259 

felonious purpose in his mind, he wished to see that the coast 
was clear before he executed it. At last, when the traffic 
seemed for a moment to diminish* he leaned over the parapet 
of the bridge — as if to notice the wherries and steamers on 
the river — hurled over the odious glove, which was disturb- 
ing his serenity, and then limped off in an agitated and guilty 
manner, as though he were trying to evade the emissaries of 
justice. So eager was he to get off the bridge, and thread his 
way unobserved through the crowd, that he outstripped his 
son ; and just as he was waiting for him, and was congratulat- 
ing himself on having, for once, got rid of an obnoxious article, 
a breathless .waterman ran up to him, tapped him on the 
shoulder, and said, "I beg your honor's pardon, but I think 
you dropped this here glove in the river." " How — how, sir, 
do you know it to be my glove ? " " Why, sir, I was a scul- 
ling, and was just giving my boat a spurt under the arch of 
the bridge, when this here glove fell ; and on looking up I 
see'd that the gentleman from whose hand it dropped had a 
white hat on with a black crape round it ; so I pulled with all 
my might and main after you, and ran up the steps from the 
river-side, and I thought I never should have catched you," — 
wiping his forehead with his sleeve as he spoke. Of course 
such disinterested civility had to be rewarded with a shilling, 
and the impoverished donor, like Lord Ullin's daughter, waa 
" left lamenting ! " 

Again. During Mathews's visit to us at the end of October 
1833, one °f tne sons °f tne nobleman (at whose gate, almost 
we lived) dined with us ; and having an acute sense of fun, 
and thoroughly appreciating our guest's wit and humor, and 
learning from us that the star of his genius always began to 
rise when that of ordinary mortals set (namely, at bed-time), he 
used to drop in about eleven o'clock P. M., for the pleasure of 
enjoying our visitor's incomparable society. These Nodes 
AmportiancB, delightful as they were, and temperately as 
they were conducted (for potations were not required by way 
of stimulus), were very trying to me ; for, about a week after 
our little party had broken up, the late hours to which I had 



260 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

been exposed, and the excess of laughter in which I had 
indulged, told upon me and I fell ill. The night before 
Mathews left Amport, he told us that he was going to Oxford 
the next day to give two or three entertainments ; and he 
implored my wife and myself so urgently to accompany him, 
that, in compassion to his anticipated dejection, we consented. 
As we were only some twenty-five miles from Oxford, I under- 
took to drive him there in my phaeton. When the noble lord 
already alluded to found that my wife and myself were going to 
Oxford with Mathews, he begged permission to accompany us. 
As I had one vacant seat, I was only too glad to have so agree- 
able an addition to our party ; and on the following morning we 
set off. From nine in the morning till six in the evening it 
poured with rain incessantly. Mathews sat in front with me ; 
Mrs. Young and her noble companion behind. We started 
about twelve o'clock, and baited two hours on the road. 
Mathews besought me to get him into Oxford by six P. M., as 
he was engaged to meet a large party at the Rev. Mr. Rose's, 
of Lincoln College, at seven. It was a curious fact, and one, 
so far, justifying Mathews's theory of his invariable ill-luck, 

that, though Lord F. P had merely a dreadnought on, my 

wife her ordinary cloak, and I a common great-coat, Mathews, 
who was enveloped in waterproof wraps, in addition to a great- 
coat and cloak, was the only one of the party who was soaked 
through and through. Fearing that, on his arrival, he might 
be hurried, and, in order to save himself the trouble of un- 
packing his portmanteau in undue haste, he had taken the 
precaution of wrapping up the clothes he would require for 
dinner in two towels. Boundless, therefore, was his disgust 
on unpinning his packet, which had lain at our feet protected, 
as we thought, alike from wind and rain by the thick leathern 
apron over our knees, to discover that his dress coat and ker- 
seymere pantaloons were saturated with wet, and that the 
Dattern of his sprigged velvet vest had been transferred to 
his shirt-front. When, therefore, he entered our sitting-room 
at the Star Hotel, and observed the table laid for dinner, the 
clean cloth, the neatly-folded napkins, the glittering glass, and 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 26 1 

the blazing fire, he could not help contrasting our cosy con- 
dition with his own draggled plight, and began to reflect 
gloomily on the length of time his clothes would take to dry, 
and on the several disadvantges under which he would have 
to make his rapid toilet ; till, at last he vowed that " Mr. Rose 
might go to Jericho, and all the heads of houses be drowned in 
the Red Sea, before he would desert us." It was in vain that 
we expostulated with him on the indecency of such behavior ; 
in vain we depicted the cruel disappointment he would inflict 
on a gentleman who had paid him the compliment of asking 
the Vice-Chancellor and other men of University distinction 
to meet him. In vain we appealed to his self-interest, telling 
him that he would, by his rudeness, estrange his friend, and 
convert a patron into an enemy. The more we urged him 
to consider what he owed to others, the more obstinately he 
vowed he would not victimize himself for the sake of acquir- 
ing a reputation for good manners. Dine with us he would. 

As we were enjoying, with keen relish, our salmon and cu- 
cumber, the waiter entered, and thus addressed the culprit : — 
" Please, sir, here's a messenger from Mr. Rose of Lincoln, to 
say that his dinner is waiting for you." " My kind compli- 
ments to Mr. Rose of Lincoln," was his rejoinder ; " I am sorry 
I cannot dine with him, as I am obliged to share the fortunes 
of three friends who have been nearly drowned. I dine with 
them. Tell him I have not a dry rag to cover my nakedness 
with, and that we are all four now steaming before the fire 
preparatory to going to bed to nurse." 

Every instant I sat in fear and trembling that we should 
either see the much-wronged gentleman in propria persona, or 
have to receive a deputation from him, or else an angry note ; 
but fortunately our threatening evening passed off without a 
storm ; and as, after our meal, we drew together round the 
fire, and Mathews sipped his negus, and lolled back in his 
arm-chair, his spirits rose, and " Richard was himself again." 

He had an inveterate propensity to keep late hours ; and he 
was given to lie in bed till midday in consequence. If he were 
disturbed earlier, he would say he had been woke in the middle 



262 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

of the pight. It was as good as a servant's place was worth if 
she called him before twelve o'clock. Knowing all this, it was 

greatly to the diversion of Lord F. P , Mrs. Young, and 

myself, that, the morning after our arrival, one of the waiters 
told us there was a messenger from Mr. Rose of Lincoln wait- 
ing in the hall to see Mathews. We desired him to be shown 
up, and then, pointing to Mathews's bedroom, which was on 
the same floor with our sitting-room, and well within our view, 
we advised him to rap at his door and give him the note with 
which he was intrusted. In the spirit of mischief, and long- 
ing for a scene, we three ensconced ourselves behind our own 
door, impatient to witness the result. The messenger at first 
tapped humbly and hesitatingly. No answer. A second rap, 
and then a third, waxing louder each time. As the patience 
of the messenger was giving way, a strange figure, clad in a 
long night-shirt, with an extinguisher cotton night-cap on his 
head, and irrepressible fury in his visage, emerged from the 
room, and, with clenched fist, asked his visitor — " If he was 
weary of life ? — if he desired to be ruthlessly murdered ? " 
etc., etc. " No, sir." " Then how dare you disturb me at this 
unearthly hour ? " (N. B. 9.30 A. M.) He then slammed the 
door violently to, in a state of wrath implacable, and bolted 
himself in. Once more the poor " scout," in undisguised trep- 
idation, appealed to us for advice, as to what he should do 
next, adding that his master had enjoined him strictly, on no 
consideration, to return without an answer. Greedy of more 
fun still, we insisted on his attending, above everything, to his 
own master's instructions ; and, disregarding Mathews's blus- 
ter, again to try his door, and not to leave it without receiving 
the answer required. 

With evident misgiving, he again crept up to the dreaded 
bedroom, and, after a free and frequent application of his 
knuckles to the panels of the door, finding he received no re- 
ply, he took heart, and halloed through the key-hole : " I 
1 imbly ax your pardon, sir, but Mr. Rose of Lincoln says he 
must have an answer." The hero of my tale, exasperated be- 
yond all bounds by this persecution, once more appeared, in 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 263 

the same questionable attire as before, and, indifferent to the 
observation of the waiters and chambermaids who were flitting 
up and down the corridor, and unconscious that his friends 
were watching him, screamed out : " Confound Mr. Rose of 
Lincoln, and all Mr. Rose of Lincoln's friends, and all Mr. 
Rose of Lincoln's messengers ! Mr. Rose of Lincoln must 
have an answer, eh ? Then let him get it by law. Does Mr. 
Rose of Lincoln think that I go to bed with a pen in my mouth, 
and ink in my ear, that I may be ready to answer, instantly, 
any note Mr. Rose of Lincoln may choose to write to me ? " 

I forget whether we remained at Oxford more than two 
nights ; but, naving first ascertained that he had made matters 
straight with Mr. Rose, we left with easy conscience. He did 
not return to Amport with us, but followed afterwards, in a 
day or two. After sleeping a night with us, he asked me if I 
would go with him to Salisbury, where he was due for one 
night's entertainment. It was on our road across Salisbury 
Plain that the accident befell us which is told in Mrs. Mathews's 
memoirs of her husband. I never was more surprised than at 
reading, in the " Morning Chronicle," two or three days after- 
wards, the particulars of our adventure. It seems that Mr. 
Hill, the original from whom John Poole took his " Paul Pry," 
was sitting with Mrs. Mathews in Great Russell Street, when 
a letter from her husband was put into her hand. She begged 
permission to read it, and as, in doing so, she could not sup- 
press a few ejaculations of surprise, he begged he might hear 
it. She was quite willing to gratify him, and, at his request, 
gave him permission to take it home and show it to his wife. 
On that understanding he was allowed to take it ; but, instead 
of taking it home, he took it to the printer of the paper with 
which he was connected, and inserted it in its columns. As 
many may never have read it, I shall presume to give my own 
version of the accident, which is much fuller in its details than 
the one given in Mrs. Mathews's Life of her husband. 

Before he left our house, I had promised Mathews, who 
could not bear being alone, to drive him to Salisbury, and keep 
him company while there. The distance from Amport to An- 



264 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

dover was five miles ; from Andover to Salisbury, b) the road, 
eighteen ; but across the intervening Plain, fully three miles 
shorter. Now, although, under the pilotage of Lord W. and 

Lord George P , I had ridden that way two or three times, 

I had never driven it. To the rider nothing could be more 
delightful than the long unbroken surface of untrodden turf ; 
though the tameness of the surrounding scenery, and the ab- 
sence of landmarks to steer by, made the route rather a diffi- 
cult one to find. Before starting, I had serious misgivings 
that the frequent intersection of deep wagon-ruts, of the ex- 
istence of which I was quite aware, might put my charioteer- 
ing powers to a severe test ; but the prospect of a " short cut " 
was a temptation not to be withstood. For the first two or 
three miles we got on capitally ; but afterwards we encountered 
such a succession of formidable inequalities in the ground, that 
Mathews got nervous, and my horses became excited. Out of 
consideration for his hip-joint, I advised him to alight, and walk 
a few yards till we had passed over the roughest part. This he 
was only too glad to do ; while I, throwing the reins over the 
splashboard, went to the horses' heads, and, by voice and ges- 
ture, endeavored to coax them gently over the uneven ground. 
However, in descending a sharp dip in the ground, which was 
succeeded by a rise as sudden, the pole sprang up, hit me a 
violent blow under the chin, and sent me spinning to the ground. 
On recovering my footing, I saw my carriage jolting and bump- 
ing along at the rate of twenty miles an hour, rendering any 
hope of my overtaking it, for a long time to come, an apparent 
impossibility. In utter dismay, I appealed to my friend for ad- 
vice, but found him all but paralyzed, and incapable of giving it. 
4 ' Good heavens, Julian ! " he cried out, " in that bag of mine, 
are, not merely all my clothes, but three hundred sovereigns 
in gold, the fruit of four ' At Home's,' and all that I have writ- 
ten of my autobiography. Run ! Run ! " 

It was easy for him to say " Run," but not so easy for me to 
do so ; for, owing to the extraordinary velocity with which the 
panic-stricken animals had darted off, and the undulation of 
the land over which they had passed, they were lost to sight in 
no time. 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 26$ 

The foremost difficulty which suggested itself to me was 
now, even if I recovered my carriage and horses, I was to find 
my disconsolate companion again ; for, in consequence of the 
complete circumnavigation of the hill which the runaways had 
probably made, I knew I should find myself, before long, in a 
terra incognita. As Mathews could not walk, I pointed to 
some miserable furze bushes, and told him to lie down under 
them, and not to stir until he saw me again. He squatted 
down most submissively ; while, in attestation of my good 
faith, and, at the same time, that I might run the easier, I dis- 
encumbered myself of my great-coat, flung it to him, and left 
it in pawn till I should return and redeem it. Away I darted, 
and ran and ran — till I could run no more : and I was about 
to fling myself on the grass to regain my wind, and rest awhile, 
when I beheld in the distance, four carriage wheels in the air, 
and a pair of grays, detached from the vehicle, standing side 
by side, as if in one stall, trembling in every limb, sweating 
from every pore, and yet making no attempt to stir. I felt re- 
nerved at this sight, pursued my object, went up to my truant 
steeds, and captured them without any show of resistance on 
their part. They were thoroughly blown. They had been 
seen by a band of gypsies, encamped hard by, to charge a pre- 
cipitous embankment which separated the Plain from the high- 
road ; but unable, from exhaustion, to surmount it, they thought 
better of it, turned round, and, dashing down again into the 
valley, ran with such headlong fury against the stump of a 
blighted old pollard oak as to upset the phaeton, break the 
traces, snap the pole in twain, and scatter Mathews's precious 
treasures far and wide over the ground. My first anxiety was 
to rejoin their owner as quickly as possible ; for it was then half- 
past three o'clock, and I knew that he had to reach Salisbury, 
dress, order and eat his dinner, and be on the stage by seven 
p. M. I went, therefore, up to the gypsies, described how the 
accident had occurred, told them of the dilemma in which I 
had left a lame gentleman a mile off, assured them that it was 
of the greatest importance that he should arrive in Salisbury 
by five o'clock, and begged them to spare somebody to lead 



266 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

one of the horses, while I rode the other in search of my 
friend. 

Seeing that they had a tent pitched in sight, I told them, 
with a frankness that most people would have deemed impru- 
dent, that the contents of the carpet-bag confided to their care 
was very precious to the proprietor, and that, if they would he 
kind enough to set up the carriage on its wheels, and protect 
my property, the instant I reached Salisbury I would return in 
a post-chaise with ropes to take the fractured phaeton in tow, 
and reward them handsomely for their trouble. 

They undertook to carry out my wishes, while I, jumping on 
one of the horses (with all its traces and trappings, and breech- 
ing, and collar, and pad upon him), and followed by my esquire 
on foot with the other, galloped off to look for him who, I 
was certain, was for once anything but " at home " where he 
was. 

In my feverish impatience to overtake my horses, I had for- 
gotten to take notice of the ground I passed over, though it 
was in a totally different direction from that I had been used 
to. Whichever way I went, my gypsy aide-de-camp had or- 
ders to keep me well in sight. For some twenty minutes, 
which appeared an hour, I whooped and halloed at the top of 
my voice, directing it north, south, east, and west ; but neither 
received answer nor beheld sign of living creature. Turn 
which way I might, there was nothing before me but a wide 
expanse of dreary plain. The bray of a jackass, the bark of a 
watch-dog, the bleating of a stray sheep, even the quack of a 
duck, would have been as music to my ears. To contribute to 
my perplexity, the skies began to assume a leaden and lower- 
ing hue, and sleet and flakes of snow to fall. Our stipulated 
trysting-place, the furze-bushes, could nowhere be seen, for 
the projecting brow of table-land on which I was. They were 
at the base of the hill, and I was on the summit. As I sat be- 
wildered, on my horse, with my esquire behind me, I fancied I 
saw something stirring below me which resembled the flutter- 
ing of a corn-crake's wings, though they certainly seemed un- 
usually long and unsteady, and the wind appeared to have 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 267 

extraordinary power over them. I made towards the object, 
and, as I did so, I found to my ineffable relief, that it was no 
bird I had seen, but a white silk handkerchief tied to a stick, 
doing duty as a signal of distress. As I drew nearer to it, I 
saw my lost companion drop on his knees, and raise his hands 
to heaven in token of thanksgiving. No wonder. Had I not 
found him, he must have passed the livelong night in utter 
helplessness and solitude, and perhaps have fallen victim to 
hunger, cold, and mental perturbation. 

When we met, I found Mathews almost speechless from agi- 
tation. He threw his arms around me, and was so extrava- 
gantly and comically demonstrative, that, in spite of all my 
sympathy for him, I could not refrain from laughter. I feared 
he would be offended with me ; but was delighted to ascertain 
from his published letter that my ill-timed mirth was attributed 
to an " hysterical affection." As soon as I could persuade him 
to hearken to me, I told him there was not a moment to be 
lost, that we had three or four miles to go before we could 
reach the high-road, and that manage we must, somehow or 
other, by hook or by crook, to get there in time to catch " The 
Light Salisbury " coach, and reach his quarters at the White 
Hart, by five P. m. 

On my further telling him that he must get on the horse from 
which I had dismounted, and that I would lead it for him, he 
said, (i My dear fellow, I never, in the prime of life, bestrode a 
bare-backed horse ; how then can I do so now, old and crip- 
pled as I am ? " I said no more ; but, making my gypsy fol- 
lower stand at the horse's head, I went on all-fours by its side, 
and insisted on his stepping on my back, and holding by the 
horse's mane, while I gradually raised myself up, so as to ena- 
ble him to fling his leg over the animal. It was a weary and 
an anxious walk for both of us. However, as luck would have 
it, we had no sooner sighted the chalky road, than I saw my old 
acquaintance Matcham, driving " The Light Salisbury " to- 
wards us. I gave both my horses to the gypsy to lead leisurely 
to Salisbury, while I mounted on the outside the coach with 
my sorely harassed friend. He was in a most devout frame of 



268 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

mind, thanking God loudly and earnestly for his merciful deliv- 
erance from a miserable death, when a Dissenting minister be- 
hind him, learning from the coachman who he was, thought it 
a good opportunity for " improving the occasion," and preached 
to him in such bad taste, and with such utter want of consid- 
eration for his feelings, that Mathews, humbled as he was, 
could not brook it, and told him his mind. " Until you opened 
upon me, I never felt more piously disposed in my life ; but 
your harsh and ill-timed diatribe has made me feel quite wick- 
edly. Hold your canting tongue, or you'll find me dangerous, 
Mr. Mawworm ! " 

To finish my tale : — As soon as I had seen Mathews com- 
fortably seated at his dinner, I called for a post-chaise, drove 
to the scene of action, and was rather mortified to find that the 
gypsy family had not touched the carriage, though I had begged 
them to set it up again upon its wheels. On remonstrating 
with them, they very civilly said, "Why, you see, sir, if, in mov- 
ing it, anything had gone wrong with the carriage, owing to 
some injury you had not detected, or if anything were missing, 
you'd ha' been sure to suspect the poor gypsies ; so, on second 
thoughts, we considered 'twould be better to leave it — as they 
leaves a dead body before a hinquest — without moving or 
touching anything." 

They then turned to with a will, in my presence, — put the 
carriage on its legs again, helped me to cord it on to the hinder 
part of the post-chaise, and thrust inside Mathews's carpet-bag 
and portmanteau, and a few articles for the night, which I had 
put up for myself. I sprang into the chaise, wishing to get 
back and relieve Mathews's mind about his goods. I drew out 
my purse, and was g;oing to take out money to give the gypsies, 
when one of them came up to me and said, " Are you sure, sir, 
that you have got everything belonging to you ? " " Yes, yes ; 
thank you." The man smiled, and, by way of answer, thrust 
into my hand my oil-skin sponge-bag, which had fallen out of 
my hat-box, and which I had overlooked. " Now, my good 
iellows," said I, " what shall I give you ? You deserve some- 
thing handsome, and you shall have it. Will a couple of sov- 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 269 

ereigns satisfy you ? " " No, sir, no ! " they all cried out. 
" We won't have nothing. You've paid us enough ! You've 
trusted us, gypsies as we are ! You've left your property in our 
keeping, and never cast a suspicious glance at it, when you came 
hack, to see if we had been tampering with it." 

I pressed them over and over again to reconsider their deter- 
mination, and consider my feelings. "Well, sir, we will ask 
one favor of you. Tell your friends that, whatever your glass 
and crockery and brush-selling tramps maybe, a real gypsy can 
be honest." 

On the first night of one of his "At Homes," when the 
theatre was packed to the very ceiling, and all his best friends 
and supporters were there to support him, I witnessed a singu- 
lar instance of his sensibility to the opinion of others. At the 
end of the first part of the entertainment, Manners Sutton, the 
Speaker (afterwards Lord Canterbury), Theodore Hook, Gen. 
Phipps, and others, went behind the scenes to congratulate 
him, and assure him that, as far as the piece had proceeded, it 
was an indubitable success. He accepted their compliments 
rather ungraciously. All they said, to buoy him up, only seemed 
the more to depress him. At first they could not make him 
out, till he explained himself by blurting forth the truth. " It is 
all very well, and very kind of you, who wish me well, to tell 
me the piece is going well ; / know better. It ain't ' going 
well,' and it can't be ' going well ' — it must be hanging fire, or 
that man with the bald head in the pit, in the front row, could 
not have been asleep the whole time I have been trying to 
amuse him ! " " Oh," said the Speaker, " perhaps he is drunk." 
" No, no ! he ain't ; I've tried hard to ' lay that flattering unc- 
tion to my soul,' but it won't do. I've watched the fellow, and 
when he opens his eyes, which he does now and then, he looks 
as sober as a judge, and as severe as one ; and then he delib- 
erately closes them, as if he disliked the very sight of me. I 
tell you, all the laughter and applause of the whole house — ■ 
boxes, pit, and gallery put together — weigh not a feather 
with me while that ' pump ' remains dead to my efforts to arouse 
him." The call, bell rang ; all his friends returned to their 



270 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

seats in front, and he to the stage. The second part opened 
with one of the rapid songs, in the composition of which James 
Smith, the author, excelled so much, and in the delivery of 
which no one ever equaled Mathews, except his son, who, in 
that respect, surpasses him. All the time he was singing it, as 
he paced from the right wing to the left, one saw his head 
jerking from side to side, as he moved either way, his eyes al- 
ways directed to one spot, till, at the end of one of the stanzas, 
forgetful of the audience, and transported out of himself by the 
obstinate insensibility of the bald-pate, he fixed his eyes on 
him, as if he were mesmerizing him, and, leaning over the 
lamps, in the very loudest key, shouted at him " Bo ! " The 
man, startled, woke up, and observing that the singer looked 
at him, sang to him, and never took his eyes off him, he became 
flattered by the personal notice, began to listen, and then to 
laugh — and laugh, at last, most heartily. From that instant, 
the actor's spirits rose, for he felt he had converted a stolid 
country bumpkin into an appreciative listener. After such a 
triumph, he went home, satisfied that his entertainment had 
been a complete success. 

This excessive sensibility to public opinion is not uncom- 
mon. The late Sir William Knighton told my uncle, George 
Young, that if George the Fourth went to the play, which he 
rarely did, and heard one hiss, though it were drowned in gen- 
eral and tumultuous applause, he went home miserable, and 
would lay awake all night, thinking only of that one note of 
disapprobation. 

Curran, again, was so notoriously susceptible to inattention 
or weariness on the part of his hearers, that, on more than one 
occasion, advocates engaged against him, perceiving his pow- 
erful invectives were damaging their client's cause, would pay 
some man in the court to go into a conspicuous part of it, and 
yawn visibly and audibly. The prescription always succeeded. 
The eloquent spirit would droop its wing and forsake him ; he 
would falter, forget the thread of his argument, and bring his 
peroration to an abrupt and unsatisfactory conclusion. 

Mathews was, one day, riding down Highgate Hill from his 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 2*J\ 

cottage, to rehearsal, when he met a post-chariot crawling up, 
with my father and another gentleman in it, who happened to 
be the late Lord Dacre. Mathews, not knowing him by sight, 
or even by name, asked my father, as he saw he was going 
into the country, if he was going down to Cassiobury, to 
Lord Essex's (where, at that time, he was a constant visitor). 
61 No," replied my father, " I am on my way to ' The Hoo. 1 ' 
" Who ? " asked Mathews. " I am going to stay a few days 
at Lord Dacre's," was the answer. Mathews, imagining 
Young to be poking fun at him, by ennobling Bob Acres, 
laughingly exclaimed, " I have half a mind to go with you. 
Mind you give my kind regards to Sir Lucius O'Trigger, who 
is sure to be staying with him." No man could have enjoyed 
the mistake more than the noble lord himself. 

Mathews had such an inordinate love of drollery in every 
form, that he would often engage very indifferent servants, if 
they had but originality to recommend them. I 'remember a 
gardener he had, a Lancashire man, who was a never-failing 
fund of amusement. I was on the lawn at the cottage at Mil- 
field Lane one day, when I overheard the following dialogue. 

" I say," said the master, patting a huge Newfoundland by 
his side, " we shall have to put a muzzle on this brute. I am 
having so many complaints made about him from the neigh- 
bors, that I shall have to get rid of him. He worried Mrs. 

's dog, I hear, the other day, and frightened two little 

children nearly to death." 

" Well, I doan't know aboot that ; but if you wants to get 
rid on't, I know one as 'ud like to have un ; for t'other day, as 
I was a-going by Muster Morris' labyratoury (laboratory), 
Duke St. Aubon's cam louping over t' edge, and he says, says 
he, ' Who's dog be that ? ' Sol says, says I, < 'tis master's, 
Muster Mathews.' 'Would you sell un ? ' says he. ' No.' 
says I ; ' but I dussay master would let you have a poop.' 
' Oh, no,' says he ; ' Doochess has poops enough of her 
own ! ' " 

" How," asked Mathews, " did you know it to be the Duke 
of St. Alban's ? ' 



272 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

" How did I know it ? How did I know it ? Lor bless ye ; 
any one might ha' knowed it was a duke. He had gotten a 
great gowd chain, wi lots o' thingumbobs hanging to it, round 
his neck, and it run all the way into his waistcoat pocket." 

At one time he had a footman, whose boundless credulity 
recommended him to his notice. A title inspired him with 
awe, and having seen a nobleman, now and then, at his mas- 
ter's table, he took it for granted that he was familiar with 
half the peerage. The Duke of Sussex called one day to see 
the picture-gallery. On announcing his Royal Highness, 
Mathews fully expected he would have gone off by sponta- 
neous combustion ; for he retreated backwards, puffed out his 
cheeks to their fullest powers of expansion, and then poised 
himself on one leg, like a bird, awaiting to see the effect pro- 
duced on his master by the appearance of such a visitor. 
Knowing his weakness, Mathews used to tell all his intimates, 
whenever they called, to be sure to present themselves under 
some assumed title. Thus Charles Kemble always announced 
himself as the Persian Ambassador ; Fawcett called himself 
Sir Francis Burdett ; my father, the Duke of Wellington. 

This habit of jocular imposition once involved Mathews in 
an awkward scrape. He had no idea that there existed such 
a title in the peerage as that of " Ranelagh." So that when 
the veritable nobleman of that name called one day on horse- 
back at the door, and sent up a message by the manservant to 
say that " Lord Ranelagh would be much obliged if Mr. 
Mathews would step down to him, as he could not dismount,' , 
Mathews, convinced it was one of his chums under a feigned 
title, sent down word to say that Lord Ranelagh must be kind 
enough to put up his horse in the stables, and walk up, as he 
could not go out of doors, having a cold, and being particu- 
larly engaged with Lord Vauxhall. 

Lord Ranelagh could hardly believe his ears when he re- 
ceived this familiar, flippant, and impertinent message. He 
rode off in a state of boiling indignation, and forthwith dis- 
patched a note to the offender, commenting severely on his 
impudence in daring to play upon his name. Of course, as 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 273 

soon as Mathews discovered his mistake, he wrote and ex- 
plained it, and apologized for it amply. 

Mathews had often told Charles Kemble of the great amuse- 
ment his manservant's peculiarities afforded him, but Kemble 
said he had never been able to discover- anything in him but 
crass stupidity. " Ah," said Mathews, " you can't conceive 
what a luxury it is have a man under the same roof with you 
who will believe anything you tell him, however impossible it 
may be." 

One warm summer's day, Mathews had a dinner party at 
Highgate. There were present, among others, Broderip, 
Theodore Hook, General Phipps, Manners Sutton (then 
Speaker of the House of Commons), and Charles Kemble. 
The servant had learned by this time the name of the Persian 
ambassador. Dessert was laid out on the lawn. Mathews, 
without "hinting his intention, rang the bell in the dining-room, 
and on its being answered, told the man to follow him to- the 
stables while he gave the coachman certain directions in his 
presence. The instant Mathews reached the stable door, he 
called to the coachman (who he knew was not there), looked 
in, and, before the manservant could come up, started back, 
and, in a voice of horror, cried out, " Good heavens ! go back, 
go back — and tell Mr. Kemble that his horse has cut his 
throat ! " 

The simple goose, infected by his master's well-feigned 
panic, and never pausing to reflect on the absurdity of the 
thing, burst on to the lawn, and, with cheeks blanched with 
terror, roared out, " Mr. Kemble, sir, you're wanted directly." 
Seeing Mr. Kemble in no hurry to move, he repeated his ap- 
peal with increased emphasis, " For heaven's sake, sir, come ; 
your poor horse has cut his throat ! " 

From that time the Persian ambassador admitted fully that 
if his friend's servant was not funny himself, he could be the 
fruitful cause of fun to others. 

Whenever Mathews brought out a new " At Home," he was 
sure to receive a summons to Windsor to produce it before 
George the Fourth. On one such occasion, after having given 



274- JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

imitations of Lords Thurlow, Loughborough, Mansfield, and 
of Sheridan, he concluded with the most celebrated one of all, 
that of John Philpot Curran. The felicity of his impersona- 
tions of the first four, the King readily admitted, nodding his 
head in recognition of their resemblance to their originals, and 
now and then laughing so heartily as to cause the actor to pro- 
nounce him the most intelligent auditor he had ever had. He 
was, therefore, the more mortified after giving his chef-d' ceuvre, 
to notice the King throw himself back in his chair, and over- 
hear him say to Lady Coningham, "Very odd, I can't trace any 
resemblance to Curran at all." He had scarcely uttered his 
criticism before he regretted it ; for he perceived by the height- 
ened complexion and depressed manner of the performer that 
his unfavorable stricture had been heard. As soon, therefore, 
as the entertainment was concluded, the King, with generous 
sympathy, went up to Mathews, shook him warmly by the hand, 
and, after presenting him with a watch, with his own portrait 
set in brilliants on the case, took him familiarly by the button, 
and thus addressed him : — " My dear Mathews, I fear you 
overheard a hasty remark I made to Lady Coningham. I say, 
advisedly, ' a hasty remark,' because the version you give of 
Curran, all those who know him best declare to be quite per- 
fect ; and I ought, in justice to you, to confess that I never 
saw him but once, and therefore am hardly a fair judge of the 
merits of your impersonation. You see, I think it very possi- 
ble that, never having been in my presence before, his manner 
under the circumstances may have been unnaturally con- 
strained. You will, perhaps, think it odd that I, who in my 
earlier days lived much and intimately with the Whigs, should 
never have seen him but once. Yet so it was. 

" I always had had a great curiosity to know a man so re- 
nomme for his wit and other social qualities ; and, therefore, I 
asked my brother Frederick, ' How I could best see Curran ? ' 
He smiled and said, ' Not much difficulty about it. Your Maj- 
etsy has but to send him a summons to dinner through your 
Chamberlain, and the thing is done.' He came; but 01 the 
whole he was taciturn, and mal a son aise" 



CHARLES MATHEWS. 2?$ 

u 0h, sir," replied Mathews, "the imitation I gave you of 
Curran was of Curran in his forensic manner, not in private. 
Would your Majesty permit me to give you another imitation 
of him as he would appear at a dinner-table ? " On receiving 
the King's sanction to do so, he threw himself with such aban- 
don into the mind, manner, wit, and waggery, of his original, 
that the King was in ecstacies. 

He then went up to Mathews, and resumed his chat. " I 
was about to tell you that, after my brother's suggestion, I 
said to him, 'You shall make up the party for me; only let 
the ingredients mix well together.' I don't think, between 
ourselves, that he executed his commission very well ; for he 
asked too many men of the same profession — each more or 
less jealous of the other. The consequence was, that the 
dinner was heavy. However, after the cloth was removed, I 
was determined to draw out the little ugly silent man I saw at 
the bottom of the table ; and, with that object in view, I pro- 
posed the health of ' The Bar.' To my unspeakable annoy- 
ance, up sprang, in reply, Councillor Ego. 1 He certainly 
made a very able speech, though rather too redolent of self. 
He wound it up with some such words as these : — 'In con- 
cluding, he could only say that, descended as he was from a 
long and illustrious line of ancestry, he felt himself addition- 
ally ennobled on the day he was admitted to the rank of Bar- 
rister.' I was not going to be thwarted of my purpose ; and, 
therefore, the next toast I proposed was ' Success to the Irish 
Bar.' Then up sprang our little sallow-faced friend, and by 
his wit and humor, and grace of speech, made me laugh one 
minute and cry the next. He annihilated Erskine by the hu- 
mility of his bearing ; and closed his speech, I recollect, as 
follows : — ' The noble Lord who has just sat down, distin- 
guished as he is by his own personal merits, has told you, sir, 
that, though ennobled by birth, he feels additionally so by his 
profession. Judge then, sir, what must be my pride in a pro- 
fession which has raised me, the son of a peasant, to the table 
of my Prince.' " 

1 Namely, Lord Erskine, a brilliant advocate in the Law Courts, tut a dead fail 
ure in the House of Commons. 



2/6 JULIAN' CHARLES YOUNG. 

William Lisle Bowles. 

When we resided in Wiltshire, in the year 1836, the Rev 
William Lisle Bowles, the parson poet, was my neighbor. It 
was to the reading of his sonnets, when a youth, tha+ Coleridge 
attributed his earliest poetic inspiration. He resided at the 
pretty village of Bremhill, which was within an easy walk both 
of Calne and of Bowood. He was a clever, well-read, humor- 
ous, single-hearted, but eccentric person — morally as brave 
as a lion, physically as timid as a hare. It was a matter of 
equal indifference to him whether he had to measure swords 
with Lord Byron, the merits of Pope the battle-field : or to 
wrestle with deans and chapters, church patronage the bone 
of contention between them. But to confront a situation in- 
volving the slightest personal risk was beyond his powers of 
nerve. For instance, he never entered my doors without first 
sending his footman forward on a reconnoitring expedition, to 
ascertain that there was no stray dog or cat prowling about for 
his special discomfiture. 

One day, Lord Lansdowne, hearing that Bowles was going 
to Bath to attend a particular meeting, at which he himself 
meant to be present, offered him a seat in his barouche. Al- 
ways happy in his lordship's company, he gladly accepted the 
accommodation : but as the carriage drove up, and he entered 
it, he was observed to become ghastly pale. He had seen 
that there were four horses to the carriage. He had hardly 
seated himself when one of them shied. He instantly ex- 
hibited disquietude, first looked out of one window, then out 
of the other, and never spoke a word until they reached Chip- 
penham, when, calling out to the postilions to stop, he burst 
open the carriage-door, and insisted on being let out. It was 
in vain Lord Lansdowne attempted to pacify him. Out he 
got. and followed in a one horse fly, having first bribed the 
coachman to drive very slowly. 

On another occasion, I had an opportunity of witnessing a 
ludicrous display of his infirmity. Bowood was full of guests, 
and Moore, Rogers, and Milman being among the number, 



WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 277 

Mr. and Mrs. Bowles were invited to meet them. Bowles was 
no sooner dressed, than, on entering the drawing-room, he 
walked up to Lady Lansdowne, and made some complaint or 
other to her, which caused her at once to leave the room. He 
forthwith followed her. In a few minutes they both returned. 
As Lady Lansdowne passed me, she said, " Bless the dear 
man, there is no pleasing him." I did not know to what she 
alluded, until Bowles came up to me with a face of blank dis- 
may, and asked me if I were going to sleep there. On my 
telling him that I was not, he exclaimed, " I wish I were 
going home too. I sha'n't sleep a wink here. I was shown 
into a bedroom to dress in, in which I was intended to pass 
the night ; but it was on the ground-floor, where there was 
nothing whatever to prevent thieves from getting in and cut- 
ting my throat ! I have remonstrated with Lady Lansdowne, 
and the dear lady by way of rendering me easier in my mind, 
has transferred me to a room so high, that, in case of fire, I 
shall be burned to a cinder before I can be rescued ! " 

He was so cowed by the prospect of the imaginary perils of 
the coming night, that his usual flow of conversation was re- 
duced to the lowest ebb, and he hardly ate a mouthful. It had 
been understood from the first between Lady Lansdowne and 
Mrs. Bowles, that, in consequence of the crowded state of the 
house, she should return to Bremhill at night, and leave her 
husband to the enjoyment of his bachelor's bed and the con- 
genial society of his friends. His nervous apprehensions, 
however, got the better of his social propensities ; and, as the 
ladies were leaving the dining-room, he whispered to his wife, 
" I won't stay. Go home with you I must, and will." An 
hour or two after, as Mrs. Bowles's carriage was .coming round 
from the stable yard, dark sulphurous clouds darkened the 
sky, a terrific thunder-clap, succeeded by a blinding flash of 
forked lightning, shook the nerves of the ladies, and at once 
determined the terror-stricken husband again to change his 
mind. He told his wife that, as she was not afraid of the 
angry elements and he was, she had better start at once, and 
leave him to his fate. This she did ; and, after giving infinite 



278 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

trouble to his noble host and hostess by his childish fears and 
vacillation of purpose, it was at last arranged that he should 
sleep in a room adjoining Rogers's, with the door between the 
rooms left open, so that he might have the protection of his 
more valiant brother poet. 

Again. He was invited by the late excellent Dr. Law, 
Bishop of Bath and Wells, to stay at Ban well. As usual, the 
first thing he did, when he went to his room to dress for 
dinner, was to inspect his quarters, and see if he could detect 
any assailable point from which danger might be expected. 
He crept about suspiciously, looked to the fastenings of the 
windows, tested the working of the door-locks, peeped into the 
closets, and then into a small adjoining dressing-room, in which 
there was a tent-bed, unmade. From that fact, and the absence 
of washstand, towel-horse, etc., etc., he concluded it was to be 
unoccupied. Out of this dressing-room (if I remember rightly 
what I was told by one of the Bishop's sons) there was a door 
of outlet on to a back stair. The idea of sleeping alone in a 
room so exposed to nocturnal assault on two sides so appalled 
poor Bowles, that, when a maidservant brought him up his hot 
water, he took her by the hand, and told her that, if she would 
consent to occupy the vacant bed in the adjoining room, he 
would give her a sovereign. Conceiving that he meant to in- 
sult her, she bounced out of the room, and told the Bishop that - 
he must get some one else to wait on the nasty old clergy- 
man who had just come, as he had made improper advances 
to her. The Bishop insisted on knowing what he had said : 
and on hearing his ipsissima verba, told her that she had quite 
misconceived him, for all that he wanted was the protection of 
some one within ready call. " I wish," he added, " that you 
and the underhousemaid, would oblige me by taking up your 
quarters together in the room next to my timid friend. You 
can place the bed against the door ; and, as it opens in on 
your side, you will be safe from any intrusion on his part, if 
you are silly enough to fear it ; and I shall have the satisfac- 
tion of knowing that if my friend should be taken ill in the 
night he will have some one near him." It so happened that 



WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 2J() 

the Bishop forgot to tell his guest of the considerate arrange- 
ment he had made for him ; so that on retiring at night to his 
chamber, still believing the dressing-room to be empty, he 
locked, not only the door by which he entered his own room, 
but that of the smaller room. In the middle of the night he 
fancied he heard footsteps in the direction of the back stairs. 
It then occurred to him that he had neglected to lock the 
outer door of the little room, which communicated with them. 
He jumped out of bed to rectify his oversight, and unlocked 
the door which communicated with the dressing-room. On 
trying to push it open, he felt a powerful resisting body op- 
posed to him (namely, the maid's bed), and as he pushed he 
distinctly heard whisperings. This at once confirmed him in 
his conviction that there were thieves in the house. He ran 
back to the other door, bawling out " Murder ! Thieves ! " with 
such stentorian energy, that the Bishop and all his family were 
roused out of their beds, though not frightened (for the Laws 
are all remarkably fearless) ; and it was long before their guest 
could be reconciled to his position, and induced to go again to 
bed. I should surmise it would be long before he was invited 
again to Banwell. 

These instances which I have given of his constitutional 
infirmity are not more diverting than others which display his 
remarkable absence of mind. 

My wife, Tom Moore, and I, and two or three others, were 
dining with him one day. He was holding forth on the wit of 
many epilogues — Garrick's among the number ; and telling 
us of his having heard Mrs. Siddons once deliver the prologue 
to a play which had been got up in behalf of the volunteers, in 
which there occurred these two absurd lines, 

" The volunteers, rewarded by no pay, 
Except their feelings on some future day," 

when his servant presented to him my plate for some hare. 
At first he did not heed the man's presence, until, becoming 
dimly conscious of some one hanging over him, he turned 
round, and angrily asked him why he kept standing there. 
" I'm waiting, sir, for some hare for Mr. Young." " I have 



280 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

helped Mr. Young to some hare already." " No, please, sir, 
you have not : you've only helped him to gravy." Which was 
the fact. 

Dessert ended and coffee introduced, we adjourned to the 
drawing-room, where Moore's singing kept us in a state of 
enchantment until the hour for breaking up. Our carriage had 
been ordered at ten p. M. ; but it did not come round till a 
quarter past. During the interval between Moore's departure 
and ours, Bowles, who was longing to get to bed, came up to 
us, and said, " Your carriage is very late : I can't make it 
out ; " and then, walking up and down, and muttering to him- 
self, we heard him say, " Niceish people ; but why did not 
they order their coachman to be more punctual ? It's a horrid 
bore. Never mind ; it will be a good long time before we 
have to ask them again." 

He went once to dine and sleep at the Rev. William 
Money's, at Whetham. Mrs. Bowles's toilet was soon made : 
she was in the drawing-room as soon as Mrs. Money herself. 
But Mr. Bowles, not having come down when the dinner- 
bell rang, his wife requested they would not wait tor her hus- 
band, but go at once in to dinner. Soup and fish had been 
served, when a servant tapped at the door with a message, 
desiring Mrs. Bowles to step up to her husband, as she was 
wanted. On going to him she found him in a state of boiling 
indignation, with no trows ers on, with one leg in a black silk 
stocking, and the other bare. " Here, Madam," he cried out, 
" that idiot of a maid of yours has put me up only one silk 
stocking for my two legs : the consequence is, I can't go 
down-stairs to dinner, or have any dinner at all, unless some is 
sent up to me here." " Oh, my dear," said his amiable wife, 
" you need not stand on much ceremony with such old friends 
as the Moneys. Put on again the stockings which you have 
taken off, and come down in them. I will explain matters to 
the company." He took the hint, and was in the act of peeling 
off the black silk stocking from his leg, when he discovered 
that he had put the two stockings on the same leg, utterly 
unconscious of what he had done. 



WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 28 1 

I do not ask any of my readers to give credence to the 
following additional illustration of his absence of mind ; and 
yet there are many in his old neighborhood who believe it 
implicitly ; and the man who told it me, the late Rev. Anthony 
Austin, Rector of Compton Bassett, told it me as a fact. 

A little distance out of Calne, on the road to Derry Hill, 
there used to be, and may be still, for aught I know to the 
contrary, a turnpike. One very hot day in summer, Bowles, 
astride of his favorite old pony, with the reins dropped on its 
neck, was seen by three or four stone-breakers by the road- 
side, absorbed in the perusal of a book. Although the rider 
and his pony thoroughly understood each other, each minister- 
ing to the other's infirmities, yet on this occasion, the former 
finding himself, it is presumed, inconvenienced by the oc- 
casional stumbling of his veteran ally, and frequently inter- 
rupted by his straying to the roadside to graze, he dismounted, 
tied him to a gate, walked on a few yards, seated himself on a 
verdant bank, and surrendered at discretion to the captivating 
influence of the book in hand. 

When he had half digested the chapter he had been devour- 
ing, he arose, pondered further on it, argued it out aloud with 
himself, opened the book again where he had left off, and, for- 
getting the pony altogether, sauntered leisurely up the hill, 
reading as he went, till he arrived at the turnpike-gate. On 
reaching this familiar spot, which he had been almost in the 
daily habit of passing through for years, with his eyes still 
riveted on his volume, he shouted out, with a lusty voice, 
"Gate," — then inserted his hand into his breeches pocket, 
took from it the toll, which he had already paid in going to 
Calne, and offered it to the gatekeeper. " What is this for, 
sir ? " said he. " Why, for my pony, you goose," was the 
answer. " But you have no pony ; and if you had, you paid 
me already in the morning." On hearing the man say he had 
no pony, Bowles cast down his eyes as if he had expected to 
see it between his legs ; then became strangely confused, and 
only through the suggestion of the man, was enabled to re- 
member where he had left the animal. 



282 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

I am bound in justice to admit, that I remember the subject 
of this story being twitted with it in a large company, < r_d 
positively denying that there was a word of truth in it. Bui it 
is only fair to add, per contra, that the turnpike-keeper and 
the stone-breakers adhered stoutly to their assertions ; and 
the general impression was, that their evidence was more to 
be relied on than that of one so exceptionally oblivious and 
dreamy as the hero of the tale himself. 

One more anecdote of Bowles, and I have done with him. 

When very old, and when his mental faculties were pain- 
fully on the wane, he was seated in his arm-chair at the win- 
dow, in his prebendal house at Salisbury, when he perceived 
an unusual crowd of people of all sorts, tag, rag, and bobtail, 
hurrying with eager steps in one direction. 

He inquired of his attendant the cause of all this ferment, 
and was told it was the first day of the great assizes. On 
hearing this, he hung his head and betrayed symptoms of 
profound depression. Presently, with an abruptness that 
might have startled men of less sensibility, the loud blast of 
a trumpet was heard. " Good heavens ! " he cried out, " what 
is that ? " His servant informed him that " the Judges were 
come." He had no sooner heard this, than he fell to the 
ground, crying out in accents of piteous alarm, " Guilty ! 
Guilty ! " Then turning his silvery head to the person nearest 
him, he said, " If my doom is sealed, and I am to go to prison, 
I implore you not to allow that solemn coxcomb F to at- 
tend me." N. B. A clergyman against whom he had conceived 
an unaccountable antipathy. 

William Beckford. 

Soon after attaining his majority, he started on what was then 
called the grand tour. His suite consisted of a musician to 
play to him, of a doctor to watch over his health, of an artist 
to paint and copy for him, and of Dr. Lettice to aid him in lit- 
erary research. He was followed by six or seven carriages, a 
proportionate number of fourgons for the luggage of such a 
retinue, and a stud of first-class horses. He first made for 



WILLIAM BECKFORD. 283 

Venice, by way of the Tyrol, and reached it by moonlight in a 
gondola. On setting foot on the piazetta, his sense of enjoy- 
ment was so intense that he could only give vent to it in tears. 
Abruptly breaking away from his party, and without giving any 
of them a hint of his purpose, he jumped into the first gondola 
he came near, and, captivated, yet enervated by his sensations, 
told the boatmen to convey him to one of the least frequented 
of the islands in the Adriatic, where he might remain a while, 
safe from intrusion, and give the reins to his overwrought im- 
agination. As soon as he had left the boat, he told the gon- 
doliers to go to sleep if they liked, but to remain where they 
were till he returned. It was near midnight before he was 
traced by Dr. Lettice, and then only through the help of some 
sailors, who had watched the course Beckford's gondola had 
taken. He found him alone, wrapped in visionary specula- 
tions, which he did not thank him for disturbing. He after- 
wards confessed to him that the combined effects of the 
climate, the scenery, and association, classical, poetical, histor- 
ical, pictorial, and theatrical, had wrought so powerfully on his 
brain, that he believed that he should have gone mad, but for 
the timely relief of tears. The same effect was subsequently 
produced upon him by his first evening in Rome, and his first 
sight of Cintra and Vallombrosa. He used to say, in after 
years, that in those few nights he had lived through years of 
feeling. 

Venice was a place so entirely after his own fancy, that he 
lingered there long : never so happy as when, at full length, 
with closed eyes, he was floating lazily across the lagunes in his 
gondola, and yielding to the balmy influences of the atmosphere 
till evening, when he would go home and dress and dine, and 
hurry to the opera to listen to the notes of Paccharetti. He 
found himself soon so beset with invitations from the leaders 
of ton in the place, that, society becoming irksome to him, he 
tore himself away from its exactions, and hurried on to Rome. 
On first reaching the heights of Monterosi, and beholding the 
dome of St. Peter's, he flung himself prostrate on the ground 
in speechless rapture. It was late in the evening when he 



284 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

entered the town itself ; and on reaching the Piazza del Popolo, 
leaving all concern about luggage and passports to his follow- 
ers, and calling up one of his grooms with a led horse, he flung 
himself into his saddle, and attended by his courier, galloped 
off to the object of his longing. He reached St. Peter's as 
the great doors were being closed. Extending a well-filled 
purse to the sacristan, he told him that every farthing in it 
should be his if he would but suffer him to remain in the 
mighty temple alone for a couple of hours. The man stared, 
scrupled — but consented. Beckford begged to be locked in, 
taking the precaution, ad interim^ of returning his purse to his 
pocket. As he entered the vast building and heard the doors 
close behind him, and found the twilight deepening round him, 
his teeming brain ran riot. The odor of incense still clung to 
the walls, light still twinkled round the high altar. With 
stealthy steps and breath suspended he wandered slowly from 
chapel to chapel. Much which he wished to see was hidden 
from his view by the intervening shadows of the lofty pillars ; 
when — joy beyond his fondest hopes ! — the clear full moon 
arose and shed her silvery beams athwart great part of the in- 
terior. He could scarcely believe that two hours had passed, 
when he was reminded of it by the entrance of the door-keeper, 
to whom he gladly tendered the promised guerdon, and who 
was so well satisfied with his bargain that he gave his patron 
carte blanche to repeat his visits whenever he was so disposed 
— a privilege of which he was not slow to avail himself. He 
would often remain there from midnight till dawn of day with 
no other seat to rest on than the steps of the high altar. 

After devoting considerable time to the careful exploration 
of the antiquities of Rome, he went on to Naples. He was 
enchanted with it, of course, but still, amid all the attractions 
of that lovely city, he pined for his first love — Venice. Thither 
he returned ; and while thinking seriously of a prolonged stay 
there, an urgent summons to enter public life compelled him 
once more to return to England ; though, at that time, the 
solicitations 'of his friends and relatives did not shake him in 
his resolution to decline the proffered representation of the 



WILLIAM BECKFORD. 285 

borough of Hendon. Having no ambition to enter on the 
stormy arena of politics, which were at that time agitating the 
senate, he retired to Bath, where he met with Lady Margaret 
Gordon, his own cousin. He quickly became intimate with 
her — loved, and married her. After presenting her at Court, 
and paying the necessary round of complimentary visits to his 
friends, he turned his back on London, and repaired, with his 
bride, to the favorite haunts of his early youth, and pitching 
his tent at Melhabeau de la Tour, at Evian, there lived in bliss- 
fu] retirement. It was there his first daughter was born ; and 
there fifteen months later, after giving birth to another girl, 
that his wife died. 

Shortly after, in quest of new scenes, in the hope of alle- 
viating his grief for his irreparable loss, and accompanied by 
Dr. Lettice, his " guide, philosopher, and friend," he betook 
himself to Portugal, having sent his two children to Fonthill 
to be under his mother's care. He soon found wholesome 
distraction in building his well-known house at Cintra, Ra 
Mathao. There he had ample scope for the indulgence of his 
extravagant passion for Eastern architecture : with which the 
exquisite climate, and the almost tropical vegetation, were 
thoroughly in keeping. The recollection of his sumptuous 
manner of life was still green, when Byron made his pil- 
grimage there. 

" On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 

Are domes, where, whilom, kings did make repair ; 

But now, the wild flowers round them only breathe : 

Yet ruined splendor still is lingering there, 

And yonder towers the prince's palace fair. 

There thou, too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 

Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware 

When wanton wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
Meek peace voluputous lures was ever wont to shun." 

The scale of his establishment, and of his general expendi- 
ture, surpassed anything that had ever been witnessed in that 
country. The consequence was, that he was overwhelmed 
with applications from the proudest magnates in the land for 
permission to visit him. With the Marquis di Marialva, the 



286 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

prime minister, and also with the Grand Inquisitor, he ce- 
mented a cordial friendship. One day Marialva called him 
aside, and told him that he was anxious to take him to some 
curious old Moorish remains, which stood in a singularly- 
picturesque and sequestered situation. Having readily con- 
sented to go, early the next morning they started together on 
their expedition. When they drew near to the spot, Marialva 
desired his companion to order his numerous attendants to 
remain where they were, while they withdrew by themselves. 
In a few minutes they came upon the buildings, which were 
sufficiently striking to excite Beckford's admiration ; but while 
he was examining them, Marialva, without any perceptible 
motive, whispered to him, " Seem to be drawing. Pretend to 
be drawing." 

Fortunately, Beckford had his sketch-book in his hand, and 
was in the act of taking a view (which, by the by, long after 
hung in the Duchess of Hamilton's boudoir at Easton Park), 
when a door in the building opened, and a tall thin young man, 
with a fine intelligent countenance, and an undefmable grace 
of movement, came forward and stood before the presumed 
artist. He was so full of majesty that Beckford, convinced 
he was no ordinary personage, and concluding that he wished 
to maintain his incognito, merely returned his salutation, and 
offered him a seat, while he went on with his drawing. It was 
not long before he found himself drawn into conversation with 
him. One topic followed another in rapid succession, until 
the political condition of England, France. Italy, Spain, and, 
finally, Portugal itself, was freely discussed. Home questions 
were put, and counsel sought of Beckford, on subjects of such 
delicacy that it required both courage and presence of mind to 
answer them to one entirely unknown. His enthusiastic dis- 
position was however piqued by the singularity of the inter- 
view ; and, being partial to the people of the country, from 
whom he had received much respect, he uttered the honest 
sentiments of his heart about them without reserve. 

The stranger was so captivated with the liberality of his 
opinions that he threw off all further disguise, and made him- 



WILLIAM BECKFORD. 287 

self known as the Prince of the Brazils. He had heard so 
much about the Englishman that he had hit upon this expedi- 
ent as a means of knowing him without himself being known. 
From that hour they became fast friends. 

After visiting every place in Portugal and Spain possessing 
objects in art. or nature worth seeing, he returned to England, 
more bent than ever on building the abbey at Fonthill. His 
original idea was not to reside in it, but to erect for himself a 
more modest retreat hard by. 

While the new building was in course of erection he went 
to Paris, where he remained during more than twelve months 
of the Revolution. He remained equally undismayed by Ja- 
cobins or Girondists, taking no part in the political feuds 
which disturbed other men's minds, and maintaining a dig- 
nified attitude of reserve. Strange to say, at a time when the 
worst passions of human nature were let loose and anarchy 
usurped the place of law, he lived on terms of equal good-will 
with the Duke of Orleans and with Mirabeau. 

It was in the year 1793, when men of peace could once 
more move about without fear, that Beckford was induced to 
go and see a very remarkable lion, which no man could tame ; 
and which, from his exceeding ferocity, was a terror even to 
beholders. The instant Beckford entered the place in which 
he was confined, his angry roars ceased ; he approached the 
bars of the cage where Beckford stood, and rubbed himself 
caressingly against the spot. Every one present was struck 
with the strange sight, and watched the actors narrowly. The 
keeper went up to Beckford, and said that he was sure that if 
he would enter the den with him the lion would not harm him. 
Although curious to make the experiment, he had no idea of 
making an exhibition of himself : so he told the keeper if he 
would wait till the hour of closing, he would not hesitate to 
enter the cage in his company. When the general public were 
dismissed, and Beckford walked towards the cage, the lion 
stood still, narrowly scrutinizing his movements. Beckford 
fixed his eyes steadily on him ; the lion returned an equally 
steadfast gaze. After mutual investigation, the lion having 



288 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

taken his visitor's measure, and seeing that he did not quail 
before him, went up to him, lay on his back, fondled him, and 
putting forth his tongue, licked his hands till the skin was 
nearly rubbed off. Luckily no blood was drawn. From that 
day, go when he might, Beckford was sure of an affectionate 
welcome from the king of beasts. The good understanding 
existing between the lion and the Englishman became a sub- 
ject of court gossip ; and many years after, when Charles the 
Tenth was residing at Holyrood, he asked the Duchess of 
Hamilton whether her father still possessed the same power of 
eye over wild beasts which he had displayed in the case of 
ferocious lions. 

He continued in the French capital till after the death of 
Louis XVIII., making acquaintance with all the most con- 
spicuous persons of that day : among the number, with Mad- 
ame de Stael, whose talents he appreciated more than her 
morals. On his return to Fonthill, he dedicated himself in 
earnest to the realization of the projects he had long ago con- 
ceived — which had grown with his growth and strengthened 
with his strength. 

When he was residing at Naples, he received much civility 
from Sir William Hamilton ; and it so happened that he, his 
lady, and the illustrious Nelson, volunteered him a visit in the 
course of the ensuing winter. He resolved to commemorate 
it by a grand fete. Nearly seven hundred workmen were em- 
ployed in carrying out his plans. Torches were burning all 
night to enable successive gangs of workmen to continue 
their labors. The consequence was that in little more than 
two months the abbey had so far advanced as to be a model 
of architectural beauty. From one point in the grounds it 
was visible in all its grandeur — the turrets, gurgoyles, pedi- 
ments, and pinnacles imparting to it the more salient features 
of an enormous monastery. The hall was spacious and lofty ; 
the tower, which was in the centre of the building, was visible 
at a distance of forty miles. Three wings stretched from it, 
eastward, northward, and southward — each totally unlike the 
other, yet each constituting in itself an elegant and com- 



WILLIAM BECKFORD. 289 

modious residence. The splendor of its furniture and decora 
tions, with its inexhaustible treasures of art, earned for it the 
designation of " The Wonder of the West." 

The illustrious naval hero was received in the town of 
Hendon with an ovation worthy of him : the anxiety of the 
townspeople to get a glimpse of him beggaring description. 

When the company invited took their seats in the old hall, 
the scene must have been singularly imposing. Every one 
was kept in profound ignorance of what awaited them, the 
work having been carried on behind an immense screen of 
timber, so that no one might know of the progress of the 
works. 

To his guests, who begged that they might be allowed to 
visit the abbey, the erection of which had already created 
general curiosity, Mr. Beckford replied that " they should 
certainly see whatever there was to see before their de- 
parture." The next day he was busy superintending opera- 
tions, for he meant to give them a fete champeh'e, which they 
should not forget. When the day arrived, and twilight deep- 
ened, numerous carriages drove up to the door, followed by a 
cavalcade of horsemen, in procession, in conformity with the 
directions of a printed programme. The visitors, not at all 
prepared for the coming event, chatted gayly as they drove 
or rode down the road towards one of the grand avenues 
already mentioned. At a particular turn, every carriage 
stopped, and one long, loud, ringing shout of amazement 
and delight burst from every throat. The enormous body 
of visitors found themselves, in an instant, transported as by 
magic to a fairy scene. Through the far-stretching woods of 
pine glittered myriads on myriads of variegated lamps, form- 
ing vast vistas of light, and defining the distant perspective 
as clearly as in sunshine. Flambeaux in profusion were car- 
ried about by bearers stationed wherever they were most 
needed. The Wiltshire Volunteers, handsomely accoutred, 
were drawn up on either side. Bands of music, studiously 
kept out of sight, were placed at intervals along the route, 
playing inspiring marches ; the whole effect being heightened 



29O JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

by the deep roll of numerous drums, so placed in the hollows 
of the hills as to insure their reverberation being heard on 
every side. 

The profound darkness of the night, the many-tinted lamps, 
some in motion, others stationary, here reflected on the 
bayonets and helmets of the soldiery, there seen through 
colored glass, and so arranged as to shed rainbow hues on 
every surrounding object — the music, now with a dying fall," 
now waking the dormant echoes into life with martial clangor, 
riveted to the spot the lover of striking contrasts. 

Gradually the procession drew near to the abbey itself, the 
tracery of its splendid architecture relieved by strong shadow, 
the inequalities of the building marked out by myriads of 
lights, and revealing to the wondering eyes of the spectators 
battlement and turret and flying buttress. No grander feature 
was there in the whole edifice than the tower, shooting up 
three hundred feet, the upper part lost in total eclipse. 
Reared above the main entrance fluttered the national banner, 
and by its side the Admiral's flag, catching light enough as 
they flapped in the night breezes, to display their massive 
folds to advantage. All present stood entranced. The mo- 
ment the abbey was fully disclosed, every one, animated by a 
common impulse, sprang from their carriages and v/alked 
towards it. And when the " conquering hero," attended by 
his host, entered the walls, the organ thundered forth a 
pealing sound of welcome, which shook the edifice to its 
foundations ; while notes of triumph resounded through the 
galleries and corridors around. 

From the abbey they adjourned to the grand hall, which 
had been arranged for the banquet. An entire service of 
silver and agate of mediaeval pattern was laden with the fare 
of other days. On the beaufet were piled heavy masses of 
gold and silver plate. On the board, and against the walls of 
the room, stood wax candles six feet high, in silver sconces ; 
while huge blazing logs of cedar, dried and prepared for the 
occasion, and constantly renewed, contributed to the material 
comtort. 



WILLIAM BECKFORD. 2g\ 

The banquet ended, and the guests well-nigh surfeited with 
the fanciful and gorgeous display they had witnessed, they 
were desired to pass up the grand staircase. On each side of 
it stood, at intervals, men dressed as monks, carrying waxen 
flambeaux in their hands. The company were first ushered 
into a suite of sumptuous apartments, hung with gold-colored 
satin damask, in which were ebony cabinets of inestimable 
value, inlaid with precious stones, and filled with treasures 
collected from many lands — then through a gallery two 
hundred and eighty-five feet long, into the library, which was 
tilled with choice books and rare manuscripts, and fitted up 
with consummate taste. The hangings of crimson velvet, em- 
broidered with arabesques of gold, the carpets of the same 
color — the windows of old stained glass, bordered with the 
most graceful designs. 

At last the guests reached the oratory, where a lamp of gold 
was burning by itself, shedding just light enough to display to 
advantage, in a niche studded with mosaics and jewels of 
great price, a statue of St. Anthony by Rossi. Here, again, 
the illusion of the monastery was well maintained. Large 
candelabras, in stands of ebony inlaid with gold, and multi- 
plied by huge pier-glasses, formed an exquisite perspective, 
and enhanced the surpassing brilliancy of the scene. When 
the entire company was collected in this marvellous gallery, a 
stream of solemn music came floating through the air, none 
knowing from whence it issued. Beckford always thought the 
effect of music heard under such circumstances irresistible. 
Only eighteen months before his death, when he was eighty- 
seven years of age, he was wont to speak with ecstacy of a 
scene at which he had been present in one of his juvenile 
explorations. He had accidentally strayed into a grand but 
very sombre cathedral : the choir was chanting a solemn 
requiem for the dead ; priests, motionless as statues, were 
grouped around a catafalque ; lofty candles, lighted, surrounded 
the altar. There was a long pause for meditation, and then, 
from an unseen quarter, voices of inconceivable sweetness 
wailed forth a funeral hymn. The priests themselves grew 



292 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 

pale, as they sang their parts, in response. " As for me," he 
would say, " my heart's blood curdled in my veins ; and, to 
my dying hour, the mere mention of that cathedral, and the 
hymn I heard there, will thrill to my inmost soul." 

After gazing their fill on the multiplicity of sights that met 
them at every turn, the guests were directed to retire in a 
direction opposite to that from which they had come. But, 
before they were allowed to depart, spiced wine, sherbet, 
lemonade, and iced water, in flagons of ruby-colored glass, 
and caraffes of rose-water, and little cases of ottar of roses 
freshly imported from Shiraz, the choicest fruit in baskets of 
gold filagree, were handed round. It was long after midnight 
before the visitors could tear themselves away. But their host 
would not permit them to linger, lest they should retire with 
their impressions impaired by familiarity. So that, before the 
lamps began to wane, the several bands accompanied by the 
mighty organ, struck up their most exhilarating airs ; and, as 
these yet hung upon the ear of the departing guests, the night 
breeze wafting their melody through the air till distance 
drowned it, they left the abbey grounds scarce able to believe 
that they had not been enjoying an Arabian Night's Enter- 
tainment, instead of an English one. 




INDEX. 



Accuracy, Historic Scott not accurate, 

120. Blunders of West and Etty, 121. 

Anecdote of Wilkie, 121. Cooper's 

"Battle of Bosworth," 122. 
Amiens, The Peace of. Illumination for, 

85. Anecdote of the mob, 86. 
Angelo, Michael. Drawings of, 21. 
Athenaeum, The. Its contributors, 3. 

Bagman, The. At Waterloo, 240. His 
account of himself to Wellington, 241. 
Acts as his aide-de-camp, 243. "Well 
done, Buttons! " 244. Finally re- 
warded, 245. 

Bartley, Mr. and Mrs. Anecdote of Mr., 
145. Anecdote of Mrs., 146. Fawcett 
gives Mr. a chance, 146. 

Bayly, Haynes, Mr. and Mrs. Personal 
appearance of, 48. Benefit at Drury 
Lane for Mrs. Bayly, 126. Who as- 
sisted, 126. Note of Hook's, 127. Her 
Irish estate, 127. 

Beazley, Samuel. A remarkable man, 75. 
His wit, 76. 

Beckford, William. Starts on the grand 
tour, 282. Arrival at Venice, 283. Shut 
up in St Peter's, 284. His marriage, 285. 
Death of his wife, 285. Builds a house 
at Cintra, 285. Visit to old Moorish re- 
mains, 286. Interview with the Prince 
of the Brazils, 286. At Paris during 
the Revolution, 287. Tames a lion, 
288^ Returns to Fonthill, 288. Prep- 
arations for a fete champHre to Nel- 
son, 289. Grand illumination, 290. 
Banquet in Fonthill Abbey, 291. Mag- 
nificence of his apartments, 291. A 
juvenile recollection, 291. An Arabian 
Night in England, 292. 

Bendemann, Prof. At work on his 
frescoes at Munich, 58. 

Berry, the Misses. Their ignorance of 
Modern Literature, 47. 

Blessington, Lady, A steady friend, 16. 



Love of fun, 16. Did not admire 
Hood, 16. Her Quaker cap, 17. Re- 
tort to the Prince President, 124. 

Boehm, Mrs^ Gives a splendid party, 
217. How it was spoiled, 218. 

Bowles, William Lisle His intellectual 
courage, 276. Cowardice in Lord Lans- 
downe's carriage, 276. Dread of thieves, 
277. Proposal to a maidservant, 278. 
" Murder ! Thieves ! " 279. Absent- 
mindedness, 279. " It's a horrid bore," 
280. Puts two stockings on one leg, 
280. Forgets his pony, 281. The 
great assizes, 282. 

Browning, Mrs. "The Romance of Mar- 
gret," 49. Her letters, 50. Her mar- 
riage, 50. Believes in mesmerism and 
clairvoyance, 50. " Aurora Leigh," 51. 

Byng, Edmund. Establishes an annual 
dinner for Thomas Dibdin, 128. His 
own dinners, 129. His guests, 129. 

Byron. Anecdote of, 21 

Campbell, Thomas. Personal appear- 
ance, 56. His lectures, 57. Chorley's 
neighbor, 57. Life of by Dr. Beattie, 
58. 

Chalmers, Thomas. Personal appearance, 
186. Preached from MS., 187. 

Chorley, H. F. In London, 3. Ac- 
quaintance with George Darley, 4. 
Meets Talfourd, 6. Darley's sins vis- 
ited upon him, 6 ; He is abused, 7 
Miss Landon visits him, 11. Intro- 
duced to N. P. Willis, 14. Lady Bless- 
ington his friend, 16. Dines with Lan- 
dor, 22. Meets Disraeli, 22. Opinion 
of Lord Lytton, 24. Rogers's behav- 
ior to him, 29-32. Meets Paul de 
Kock, 40. Talks with Alfred da 
Vigny, 43. Acquaintance with Prince 
Louis Napoleon, 44. Admiration for 
Mrs. Browning, 49. Friendship of Sir 
Wm. Molesworth, 52. Knows Camp-> 



294 



INDEX. 



bell, 57. Meets Hawthorne, 64. At 
Gad's Hill, 69. Branches from the 
Cedars at Gad's Hill in his coffin, 70. 

Club, the Beef-steak. How its members 
sold Mr. Hughes, 102, 103. 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. Personal ap- 
pearance of, 192. His absent-minded- 
ness, 193. Flatters Schlegel, 194. De- 
preciates Byron, 194. A refutation of 
Bacon's axiom, 195. Too metaphysical 
for Young, 196. How he regarded 
nature, 197. His German unintelligible, 
198. Hatred of the French, 198. Epi- 
gram against Hock Heimar, 200. Goes 
with Dora Wordsworth to hear tne 
organ, 200. Advice to Young, 202. 

Constable, John. Believes in open air 
painting, 211. Anecdote of his sweet- 
ness of temper, 211. 

Cooper, Abraham. Consults Sir Samuel 
Meyrick in regard to costume, 122. 

Copenhagen, Wellington's. His endur- 
ance, 239. 

Copyrights, Musical Change effected in 
by Planche, 99, 100. 

Cornwall, Barry (B. W. Proctor). On the 
Athenaeum, 3. Writes lyrics for the 
Chevalier Neukomm, 13. 

Croker, John Wilson. His abilities and 
temperament, 224. A dogged Tory, 
225. His advice to Peel, 226. Re- 
mark to Palmerston, 227. Lectures 
William the Fourth, 227. The tough 
potato, 229. 

Cumberland, Richard. His opinion of 
Croker, 229. 

Curran, John Philpot. Imitation of by 
Mathews, 274 

Danniskiold, Count. Anecdote of, 216. i 

Darley, George. His " Sylvia," 4. Writ- 
ing letters for the Athenaeum, 4. _ Dra- 
matic critic, 5. His savage review of 
Talfourd's " Ion/' 6. 

De Kock, Paul. Personal appearance 
and character, 40. His opinion of; 
some of his contemporaries, 41. H's I 
critics, 41. His home, 41. His wife, 
42. His love of Paris, 42. Sends a 
book to Count d'Orsay, 42. 

De Stael, Madame. Her want of sincer- 
ity, 199. 

De Vigny, Alfred. His opinion of French 
drama, 43. 

Dibdin. Thomas. Annual dinner to, 
128. ' 

D'Orsay, Count Alfred. His quaintnesc, 
18. Remark about Bulwer, 18. Dining 
with Lady Holland, 18. "The King 
of the French," 19. Spoiled by every- 



body, 19. In Paris v».th Lady Blessing* 

ton, 124. 
Duchesnois, Mile. In MeVope', 163. 
Dunn, Billy. "Wants cutting," 103. A 

question of Planche' s, 103. 

Elliston, Robert William. Anecdote of 
74- 

Farley, Charles. His best parts, 146* 

His knowledge of French, 147. 
Forrest, Edwin. As Lear, 22. 

" Garrick, The." Its original members, 
104. The " Millennium," 104. 

" Gentle Zitella.' ' Its value as a song, 
98. 

Gold, The pillar of. Its history, 217. 

Grenville, Mr. Disposition of his li- 
brary, 118. 

Grimani, Gaspar. Dedicated to the 
Church, 155. Adventure with bandits, 
156. 

Grote, George. Character of, 27. 

Haldane, Dr. Want of self-possession, 
188. What his house wanted, 189. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. His genius first 
recognized by Chorley, 60. Review of 
"Transformation" in the " Athenae- 
um," 61. Letter to Chorley from Mrs 
Hawthorne, 61. Note from Hawthorne, 

63. Hawthorne as Consul at Liverpool, 

64. Chorley writes to him, 64. Visits 
Chorley in London, 65. Chorley disap- 
pointed with " Our Old Home " and 
Hawthorne's English Journals, 65. 

Hill, Thomas. His love of scandal, 89 
His reticence about himself, 90. He 
was not in the Ark, 90. 

Hogg, James. M Noo, then, leddies, fol- 
low me," 186. 

Hood, Thomas. Habits of Procrastina- 
tion, 3. Proposes the health of Powers, 
82. Joke about mustard poultice, 82. 
Remark to a clergyman, 82. Joke 
about Thames Tunnel, 83. 

Hook, Theodore. Compares himself to 
a canary, 20. Meets Reeve's funeral, 
20. His extemporaneous song about 
John Murray, 105. How he avoided 
the night air, 106. "Good-night," 106. 
Note to Planche, 148. Loss of appe- 
tite, 149* His audacity, 163. Im- 
promptu on Welwyn, 205. 

Hiihle, Dr. Pensioned by his congrega- 
tion, 204. Lodgings on brinciple, 204. 
"You musht evacooate your brain,' 
205. 

Hunt, Leigh. Acquaintance with Planche*, 
139. A charming reader of poea y, 140 



INDEX. 



295 



Considers " Roake " and " Varty," 140. 
Habit of coining words, 141. Noms 
tPamitii, 141. 

' Ion," Talfourd's. Its success, 5. 

Jerdan, William. How he conducted the 

"Literary Gazette," 8. His friends, 

81. 
Jokers, Practical. Munden and Planch^, 

133. Wallack and Tom Cooke, 133. 

Meadows on Planchi's curb-stone, 133. 

Anecdote of Liston, 134. 

Kaulbach, Wilhelm von. In his studio^ 
59. His cartoon of the Destruction of 
Jerusalem, 60. 

Kean, Edmund. His boyish recitations, 
155. Plays with Young at Drury Lane, 
165. Refuses to alternate parts with 
him, 167. Compared with him, 168. 
His style of acting, 169. " They've 
found me out," 170. 

Kemble, Charles. Appointed examiner 
of Plays, 135. Dinner given to him by 
the Garrick Club, 135. Song written 
for the dinner by John Hamilton Rey- 
nolds, 136. His recognition of Ma- 
cready, 137. His poor horse's throat, 
273- 

Kemble, John Philip. His opinion of Ma- 
cready, 137. Farewell to the stage, 164. 

Kenny, James. "Is — Heaven broke 
loose ? " 89. 

"King John." Revival of, under the 
superintendence of Planche, 93. His 
researches assisted by Dr. Meyrick and 
Mr. Douce, 93, 94. Actors take huff, 
94. Great success of the play, 95. 
What it led to, 96. 

Knowles, James Sheridan. Undertakes 
to dine with Anonymous, 137. Absence 
of mind, 138. " Haven't made up my 
mind," 139. " Took you for your name- 
sake," 139. u Do you marry the poor 
gypsy?" 139. 

Lablache, Signor. Interview with Napo- 
leon III. at St. Cloud, 125- As a 
thunder-storm, 125. 

Landon, Letitia E. (L. E. L.) Her 
spitefulness, 9. In bad hands, 9. Rival 
of Mrs. Hemans, 9. " Castruccio Cas- 
trucani," 10. "Romance and Reality," 
10. Her social position, 10. Melted 
to tears by Chorley, 11. ** Ethel 
Churchill, 11. Her opinion of stage 
triumphs, 84. 

Landor, Walter Savage. Dinner at Ken- 
sington, 22. Remark to Disraeli, 23. 
Attacks the Psalms, 24. 



Lawrence, Sir Thomas. His advice tf 

young artist, 210. 
Letter. A French, 175. 
Liston, John. Love of practical joking 

134. Loss of spirits, 135. 
Luttrell, Henry. What constitutes a liar 

129. 
Lytton, Lord. Chorley' s opinion of, 24 

Macready, W. C. In "Ion," 5. The 
Kembles' opinion of him, 137. 

Malibran. Accepts the use of Planches 
box, 112. Sings at Brompton, 113. 
Operetta translated for her by Planchl, 
"3- 

Manager Morris. Anecdotes of, 87. Re- 
mark to Tom Dibdin, 88. 

Mile. Mars In " Marie," 44. 

Mathews, Charles. Propounds a question 
to Planch^, 140. His character speeches, 
252. Coleridge defines him, 252. His 
eccentricities, 252. His character, 253. 
His depression, 254. Adventure with 
a beef-eater in a coffee house, 155. 
" You shall take mustard ! " 256. " The 
plague's begun," 256. Hates the 
touch of money, 257. He tries to 
lose things, 257. Young's dear atten- 
tion, 258. His glove is returned tc 
him, 259. At Oxford, 260. Refuses 
to dine with Mr. Rose, 261. " At this 
unearthly hour," 262. Message to Mr. 
Rose, 263. Accident on Salisbury Plain, 
264. Under the furze bushes, 265. His 
signal of distress, 267. Meets the coach, 
267. Disposes of Mr. Mawworm, 268. 
Maddened by stupidity of a rustic, 
269. Plays at him, 270. " Regards to 
Sir Lucius O' Trigger," 271. Anecdote 
of his gardener, 271. Mystification of 
his footman, 272- Message to Lord 
Ranelagh, 272. Imposes on his ser- 
vant, 273. At Windsor, 274. Imitation 
of Curran, 274. Anecdote of George 
the Fourth, 274. 

Molesworth, Sir William* His character, 
52. His thoroughness, 53. Secretary 
of the Colonies, 54. Connection with 
" Westminster Review," 55. Enjoy- 
ments of his home, 55. 

Moore, Thomas. Planche desires to 
meet him, 143. Misses him, 143. In- 
vited to meet him, 144. Misses him 
again, 145. Invited to a supper at 
Ambrose's, 185. 

Montgomery, Robert. His " Luther," 
& 

Morgan, Lady. Character of, 33. Her 
parentage and probable destination, 34. 
Her early books, 35. Becomes the rage 
in Paris, 35. Her husband's influence, 



296 



INDEX. 



36. Her conversation, 36. Love of 
dress, 37. Her seraglio, 37. What she 
taught Taglioni, 37. " Oh, Mrs. Barry 
Cornwall, 38. Literary ignorance, 38. 
Meets Cardinal Wiseman, 38. Hatred 
of Lady Holland and Lady Blessington, 
39* 

Moscheles, Herr. His character, 14. 

Murder. . Curious account of one, 207. 
How discovered, 209. 

Music, Military. Effect of, 231. 

Napoleon, Louis. Servant's gossip about, 
45. Lady Blessington and Count d'Or- 
say's incredulity, 45. News of his ar- 
rest at Boulogne, 45. Wishes Chorley 
to translate his "Idees Napoleonien- 
nes," 46. Calls on Chorley after his 
escape from Ham, 46. At Gore House, 
123. Retort of Lady Blessington to, 
124. 

Nelson, Lord. Fete given to, at Font- 
hill, 289. 

Neukomm, Chevalier. Caters for his 
comforts, 12. His music, 12. Mean- 
ness to Barry Cornwall, 13. 

Novelists. Seldom good dramatists, 91. 
Exceptions to the rule, 91. 

11 Oberon." Libretto of, written by 
Planche for Von Weber, 78. 

Paganini, Nicolo. Captured by his den- 
tist, 213. Who were invited to dine 
with him, 214. 

Parishioners, the three. Character of, 
248. Young's conversation with one of 
them, 250. " But one poor clot," 251. 

Peake, Richard Brinsley. Character of 
his plays, 77. His humor, yj. Usually 
damned the first night, 77. "Let this 
go too," 78. 

Planche, J. R. His "Little Red Riding 
Hood," 73- Acquaintance with Sir 
Lumley Skeffington, 76. Writes " Obe- 
ron " for Weber, 78. His friends and 
acquaintances, 81. Recollections of the 
Peace of Amiens, 85. Makes researches 
for the revival of "King John," 93. 
Assisted by Meyrick and Douce, 93. 
Production of " The Brigand," 97. 
Popularity of " Gentle Zitella," 98. 
Takes up the subject of musical copy- 
rights, 99. Intimacy with Theodore 
Hook, 105. Song in imitation of James 
Smith, 108. Acquaintance with Sir 
Henry Webb, 112. Loans his box to 
Malibran, 112. Translates an opera 
for her, 113. Meets Rogers and Lut- 
rell, 114. Meets the members of the 
Sketching Club 119. Advice to Sir 



David Wilkie, 121. Meets Louis Na« 
poleon, 123. Gets up a benefit for Mrai 
Haynes Bayly, 126. Friendship for 
Edmund Byng, 128. Playing at monkey 
with Charles Mayne Young, 130. Prac- 
tical joking, 133. Intimacy with Liston, 
135. Friendship of Leigh Hunt, 140. 
Mystifies Buckstone with Albert Smith, 
T43. Misses Moore, 144. Dines with 
Madame Vestris, 147. Loses Theodore 
Hook, i4§. 

Police, the French Anecdotes of, 232. 

Poole, John. Anecdote of, 88. Wh< 
wrote "The School for Scandal?" 89 
A question in heraldry, 89. 

Postman. The superannuated general, 
84. 

Rachel, Mile. In " Tancrede," 43. In 
" Horace," 43. 

Reynolds, John Hamilton. Literary 
partnership with Hood, 3. Aptness of 
his quotations, 83. Writes a song for 
the Kemble dinner, 136. 

Ring, the lost. The maid suspected, 190. 
The ring found, 190. The reparation, 
191. 

Rio, M. Shocked by Landor, 24. 

Rogers, Samuel. Chorley meets him, 28. 
''Who is that young man?" 29. An- 
tipathy to Chorley, 29. His ignorance 
of music, 30. "Now is that good?" 31. 
" No tune in it," 31. " Don't like your 
company," 32. Remark to Westmacott 
the sculptor, 32. His kindness to those 
in distress, 33. His fund of anecdote, 
114. His ill-natured sayings, 115. Two 
anecdotes of himself, 115. Anecdote of 
the tarred and feathered guest, 115. 
Mrs. Procter's reminiscences of, 116. 
His taste in poetry, 116. In music, 
117. Personal appearance, 117. Lends 
his cou*t dress to Wordsworth, 201. 

Salisbury, Lady. At the Handel Festi- 
val, 118. " Done the civil thing," 118 
Byron's opinion of her manners, 118. 

Scott, Sir Walter. Invites the Youngs 
to Abbotsford, 176. His personal ap- 
pearance, 177. "Whom is he called 
after?"' 178. "The lion must retire to 
his den," 178. " His nonsense books," 
179. Accompanies the Youngs to 
Dryburgh Abbey, 179. His love of the 
bag- pipe, 180. His great conversa- 
tional power, 181. His indifference to 
music and art, 183. Did he ever visit 
Melrose by moonlight? 184. Carried 
away by a Jacobite song, 185. 

Sedgwick, Miss. Pumps Miss Mitford'i 
servants, 48. 



INDEX. 



297 



Seymour, Sii Horace. His personal ap- 
pearance, 219. Fondness of the Re- 
gent, 219. Gallantry at Waterloo, 220. 
Accepts the French challenge, 223. 
His tenderness of heart, 224. 

Siddons, Mrs. Sarah. In the part of 
Volumnia, 162. 

Skeffington, Sir Lumley. His foppish- 
ness, 76. His cheerfulness in misfor- 
tune, 76. 

Smith, Albert. Mystifies Buckstone, 143. 

Smith, James. Laughs at the jokes of 
others, 108. A song in imitation of his 
style by Planche, 108-1 1 1. His prompt- 
ness in punning, 215. 

Smith, Sydney. Character of his wit, 25. 
Corrected by Chorley, 26. Opinion of 
Chorley, 26. 

Society, The Sketching. Its members, 
119. One of the subjects sketched by 
them, 119. Supper, 120. 

Southey, Robert. Personal appearance, 
47; Opinion of Miss Martineau, 47. 

Spiritualism. Tricks of the Chevalier de 
Caston, 66. Alexis the juggler, 67. 
Fails to read Chorley's word, 67. 
Chorley the infidel spirit, 68. 

Talfourd, T. N. Production of his "Ion," 
5. Offended with Chorley, 6. 

Thackeray, William Makepeace. His 
skill in drawing, 107. 

Tree, Miss Ellen. As " Clemanthe," 5. 

Tompkinson. His pomposity, 141. Re- 
mark to Mathews, 142. " Not seen 
Southwark Bridge?" 142. 

Uxbridge, Lord. Loss of his leg, 222. 
Among the French Cavalry, 223. 

Vestris, Madame. Her foresight, 147. 

Wallack, James. In " The Brigand, ' ' 97. 

Waterloo, Battle of. How they brought 
the good news, 218. Cowardice of 
Hanoverian hussars, 220. Wellington's 
interview with Blucher, 239. Welling- 
ton in need of a messenger, 240. 
Obtains one, 243. Change of Kempt's 
tactics, 244. Wellington not surprised, 
246. 

Webb, Sir Henry. Anecdote of, 112. 

Weber, Carl Maria von. Planche writes 
the libretta for his "Oberon," 78. Its 
cast, 78, 79. Its success, 80. 

Wellington, Duke of. Questions the 
bagman at Waterloo, 240. 4t You're a 
funny chap," 242 Uses him as an 



aide-de-camp, 243. His power of com- 
manding sleep, 244. Was he surprised 
at Waterloo? 245. Receives the dis- 
patch at the ball, 247. 

Willis, N. P. Introduced to Chorley, 
14. His gentle flattery, 15. M Me- 
lanie," 15 Hjs Don Giovannism, 15. 

Wordsworth, William. Personal appear- 
ance of, 193. Allows Coleridge to have 
all the talk, 195. As a pedestrian, 196. 
His love of Nature, 198. How he 
heard the organ at St. Bavon's,2oi. At 
Court, 201. Conversation with little 
girl, 201. 

Young, Charles Mayne- Plays old monkey 
to Planche ? s young one, 130. Practical 
joke on toll-taker, 131. " Meadows, 
where do you live?" 132. His age, 
133. His father, 153. His father's 
defense of his resurrectionists, 154. 
Expostulates with the driver of the 
elephant, 158. Friendship of the ele- 
phant, 158. Severs his connection with 
Covent Garden, 165. Engagement at 
Drury Lane, 165. Plays with Kean, 
166. Kean's opinion of his acting, 167. 
Compared with Kean, 16S. At church, 
171. " Th' ignorantest man in coom- 
pany," 171. Defends an actress, 171. 
Pensions a Magdalen, 173. Visits Ab- 
botsford with his son, 177. Recites 
"Tarn O'Shanter" to Scott, 181. 

Young, Julian Charles. Visits Abbotsford 
with his father, 177. His description ot 
Scott, 177. Breakfasts at Abbotsford, 
178. Goes to Dryburgh Abbey, 179. 
His opinion of Scott's musical taste, 
183. Sees Melrose by moonlight, 184. 
Hears Dr. Chalmers preach, 186. Tour 
on the Continent, 191. Meets Coleridge, 
192. Meets Wordsworth and his daugh- 
ter Dora, 193. Characteristics of the 
Lake party, 194 — 203. Takes lessons 
of Dr. Hlihle, 203 Visits Sir Thomas 
Lawrence's studio, 209. Acquaintance 
with Constable, 211. Presented at 
Court, 212. Visits Mrs. Boehm, 216 
Dining at John Wilson Crokers, 227. 
His three parishioners, 248. Intimacy 
with Charles Mathews, 251. Sends 
Mathews his old shoe, 257. Drives 
Mathews to Oxford, 260. Drives- 
Mathews across Salisbury Plain, 26 \ 
Accident there, 264. Seeks assistance 
of a band of gvpsies, 265. Revues 
Mathews, 267 Dines with Moore and 
Bowles, 279. 



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